


Neither Parted Nor Swept Away

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, F/M, War Hero background, infiltrator, renegade to paragon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying changes a person.  And once the physical shock is gone, the pain subsumed within grit and duty, all that's left is who you decide to be. . . at your core.  Shepard comes into to her new body, her new life, determined to be worthy of the chance she's been given.  She finds a measure of redemption, and a challenge of surprising depth, in her greatest ally and friend. But it's not the asari, as she assumed it would be, that brings her the greatest joy. . .the sweetest torture. It is Garrus.  It's always been Garrus. Struggling to find his way without her, and coming to terms with how much they seem to need each other.  This story is theirs.</p><p>I include this portion of the Frost poem, the one from which I took the title, because it illustrates perfectly the way Garrus and Shepard are meant to guide one another through to the very end.</p><p>Two such as you with such a master speed<br/>Cannot be parted nor be swept away<br/>From one another once you are agreed<br/>That life is only life forevermore<br/>Together wing to wing and oar to oar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 _To change your mind and to follow him who sets you right is to be nonetheless the free agent that you were before._

Marcus Aurelius

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

As it turned out, a hospital on Tuchanka was not unlike, well, pretty much every other shelled-out building on Tuchanka. The large turian rolled his head and kept watch while the Commander and the scientist approached what appeared to be a human corpse.

“Sores, tumors, ligature and track marks. Repeated injections.” Mordin inhaled sharply, “Human test subject. Victim of experimentation.” While the salarian’s omni-tool displayed a rendering of the poor guy’s skeleton, Garrus pointed his rifle down the hallway, spying more corpses. All human. Blue eyes narrowed in their deep sockets. The smell was perhaps different to him than it would be to Shepard, but no less affecting. And neither of them was a stranger to the scent of this, blood and death, in its many forms. He looked down at her.

“And here I was _just_ saying that you never take me anywhere nice.”

Shepard’s eyes darted sidelong at him before kneeling beside the salarian.

“Testing on humans? Why?”

She watched the rapid blinking of the doctor's eyes. To punctuate his mood, it seemed, those eyelids stuttered around their black orbs. He was agitated. And with good reason. Shepard seemed to be taking this very personally. As she drew more information from Solus, a judgmental tone creeped through her voice that, of the three of them, Garrus could freely acknowledge from her old life. Looking back at him, her suspicions were confirmed. Her favorite squad mate shook his fringed head at her. Mordin had answered all of her insinuations with great care, and Shepard sighed inwardly at her own attitude. She cared about the genophage’s effect on krogan, and she cared about Solus or she wouldn’t be here, but her accusatory tone was unexpected. The man wasn’t a monster. Shepard frowned through her divided thoughts.

She stood, looked back at Garrus, and thanked all the gods she couldn’t name that fate and the Illusive Man had brought him back to her. Even though he seemed to be scowling at her, a scowling Garrus was better than a dead Garrus any day. It had been just two weeks since Omega and he refused to let her go on any missions without him, bandaged face or no. And that suited her just fine. Behind her, at her six, was the only person that had never let her down.

She checked her Locust and they moved quietly down the hallway past the remaining bodies. Sores, open wounds, visible tumors choking vital areas. The commander felt Mordin’s tension ratcheting on her right. Pretty much nothing about this place held the promise of anything good.

“Once, Mom had to take me aboard her ship. Babysitter mix-up. I spent a week with her traveling to colonies to distribute supplies and drop off regiments for protection detail.” Shepard’s voice filled the hallways as they continued. As a kid growing up with the sleek adventure of space-travel, colonists had struck her young mind as awfully dopey, though she admitted later that she shared their determination, the same flinty quality they must have all possessed to live so far from comfort. “On one planet, the shuttle came back too soon, still full of supplies, and carrying the most wretched-looking people you’d ever seen.” They had passed far from the bodies, but Shepard’s eyes still gazed down, to her left, and saw invisible crouched figures, shivering their thanks and wetting their gaunt, pustular faces with tears.

“Plague. And there wasn’t a thing Mom could do about it. Wouldn’t even let them through the airlock. They stayed in the shuttle bay until we found an Alliance station. I don’t remember how many survived or what happened to them.”

Mordin sniffed and nodded, silent. The three of them passed through more non-descript corridors, pausing at the sound of Tuchankan wind battering the building with countless, miniscule particles of other buildings. The dust was as much metal, glass and concrete as it was earth and sand.

“How is Captain Hannah?” Garrus piped up, hoping to divert them from any more discussion of rotting flesh. They stopped at a door. Lock encrypted. The commander set about hacking. Her mother, Shepard thought, would have disapproved of this mission and called it a distraction. Then again, she had supported the genophage, even if she never said so in public. There had been no point in arguing with the Captain, and Wrex told her as much himself when Shepard offered something by way of an apology for her race. But she wagered the krogan and all his clutch-mates knew their mother better than Shepard knew the captain.

“Angry with me,” Shepard sighed, “I guess. I can never tell. There’s a message with some measure of concern over not being informed of my, you know, being alive. To be honest, I think she’s just happy that dying didn’t hurt my Spectre status.” The door hissed and she looked from Mordin to Garrus. The salarian made no comment, understandable as he was otherwise occupied, but her friend nodded, his mandibles twitching with humor.

The former C-Sec officer had spoken to Hannah Shepard only once. Much like her daughter, the woman didn’t beg to be liked, drove a tight ship, and intimidated the hell out of him. And she hadn’t even been armed when they had met on the Citadel. As their small group moved into the next room, Shepard smiled at Garrus, recalling the nervous way he had shaken her mother's hand.

What branched out before them had once been a decent medical lab: a central corridor for the testing equipment, sample storage, etc., and rooms on either side for surgery and recovery. Mordin moved around with an eerie comprehension. The scientist was drawn to a large, shapeless form shrouded on a nearby examining table. As Shepard and Garrus rounded the other side of the table, they saw that the cloth was a Weyrloc clan robe. Solus confirmed this as he read the datapad left beside the body. She had been infertile, risked her life willingly to further this pointless genophage cure research, research Solus himself had been a part of instigating. As the doctor whispered, Shepard found her fists gathering tightly against her armor.

“Mordin, I find it hard to believe that you care about a dead krogan.”

The doctor responded with indignation and the two of them launched into another argument. Shepard glanced at the Garrus, who offered no comment as Mordin enumerated the ways in which his science had been intended for good not meaningless death. In addition to witnessing the horror of the genophage, the salarian was no stranger to battle.

“When have you ever seen this up close? You didn’t just drop the genophage and leave?” Shepard crossed her arms. She wasn’t going to get dressed-down by the scientist without a modicum of give on his side of the table . . .the table displaying the very real, and very dead results of his work. Behind and to her side, Garrus looked over the commander’s head at the stricken Solus.

The animated voice slowed and Shepard watched the black eyes, with all their blinks and trembling, adopt a sadness that so clearly illustrated Mordin’s conflict. He had come back every year, he explained, and never allowed others to do it for him. Never allowed his conscience to be unburdened by the consequence of war.

“Need to look. Need to see. Accept it as necessary. See small picture.” He held Shepard’s softening gaze, “Remind myself why I run a clinic on Omega.”

But, Shepard refused to let the salarian off the hook entirely. They bickered. Mordin’s arguments about krogan population and aggression, all the justifications made by his simulations, fell on deaf ears. Or so it seemed. Shepard needled the doctor, getting in his face. When he piled on the well-rehearsed data points Shepard growled and pushed a hand through the titian curtain of her hair. Solus expanded his argument to encompass the humans and turians, then the whole galaxy. Before her death, Shepard's principles had lain on the darker side of a moral schism. That she recognized this now, and was attempting to correct it, did not still her tongue where the doctor was concerned. Garrus came closer to her, and his presence reminded her that they both shared the experience of the Shepard that she had been. They glanced at one another.

“Your equivocation dishonors your profession, doctor.” She muttered, so unkindly that her own eyes widened at the statement. Mordin knew that decimating the krogan by way of the genophage had been a right solution wrapped up in heartless one. He leaned on the table, dropping the datapad next to the dead krogan. Garrus touched her shoulder. For a moment, she didn't register the weight of it, but he’d let his talons linger there. Shepard patted his knuckles and looked over her shoulder at him. Golden eyes contrite, she lifted her chin at the turian’s expression, as near reproach has he could manage, and they once again moved through the wasted shell of the hospital.

The pall of Mordin’s heated defense and Shepard’s condemnation followed them through the remainder of the mission. Even as they approached the last battalion of Weyrloc, the commander’s blossoming black mood had her facing the clanspeaker with nothing less than murderous impatience. When the krogan laughed at her first, carefully placed pistol shot, Garrus and Mordin took cover. Then she fired into the invisible cloud leaking from the gas line. The turian and the salarian gripped their weapons, glancing at each other across the backs of Shepard’s legs. She hadn’t bothered to duck.

The commander watched the funnel of flame, its billowing heat sudden and bracing, with a crippling lack of satisfaction. Debris, largely seared flesh still encased in krogan armor, rained on the lower half of the room. She looked down to Garrus and Mordin, but they were gone, having vacated the charred pile of bloody bits to face the vorcha descending the ramp toward them. She turned, an automatic grace building in her limbs. The Locust whirred in her hand, singing a brief aria for each target. But Shepard’s mind was back on the table with the dead krogan female. Mordin, who had helped her understand her new body, explained her new abilities and her defenses with such charismatic assurance simply could not see the body under the Weyrloc shroud the way Shepard had seen her. She had suffered for the good of all. The nameless female had believed it with all her heart and died never knowing all would still be lost. _Dulce et decorum est_ , she thought, biting back the rest. The dead krogan might as well have been wearing N7 armor. Shepard’s body glowed, blue flame crackling around black armor, seeping along her nerves. As a vorcha wielding a flamethrower approached Garrus’ cover, she flung the snarling creature against the high ceiling and slammed him with crunching finality against the blood-slick floor.

And slowly, she came back to herself. Full of sound and fury, as they say. Alternating the devastating balls of flame she could now produce with the ability to throw and slam and reave to her heart’s content, Shepard stalked through the remaining Blood Pack. Mordin struggled to keep up as they powered across the bridge to the next area. Garrus fought to keep her safe as she refused cover. His Viper laid out half of the next wave of krogan and vorcha. Still she moved with relentless bloodlust. Mordin covered her as best he could, but she was possessed. Even Garrus, who would have followed her into hell, tried his best to keep her from being barbecued.

When all that remained was the clan chief himself, shields weakened, but still a deadly force, Garrus and Mordin slid alongside Shepard and pulled her into cover. She looked up at them, hair damp, and amber eyes so wide that Garrus saw the brilliant green flecks deep within them. Her white teeth flashed a lunatic’s smile.

“No, I’m fine, I promise. I’ll be right back.” Before he could protest, Shepard wrenched free, cloaked, and was gone. He cursed and swung his rifle over their cover and aimed for the charging krogan. Mordin stood and moved to the side firing his Tempest with one hand, releasing a fireball with the other. As Garrus narrowed his predator’s eyes, searching for signs of Shepard, the Weyrloc chief closed on them. Shotgun blasts tore the air beside his head and his fringe shuddered in response. Still, he waited to fire as Mordin’s bullets peppered away at the krogan’s crumbling shields. Then she appeared, closing in behind the clan chief, cloak rippling away in a silver vapor.

Shepard bolted up onto a crate and enveloped him in a massive biotic cloud. The krogan’s bulky form hit the low ceiling and crashed thunderously to the floor where Shepard pounced on him. Vaguely, she noted that Garrus was running at her, but the sickening sound filling hallway captured her attention. It was a sound she created herself with rapt enthusiasm. She perched like a carrion bird atop the twitching body, both thumbs buried deep in the krogan’s eye-sockets. What poured from his eyes was nearly as revolting as the wet gurgling coming from his throat, crushed under Shepard’s falling boot as she had descended upon him. With mounting horror, Garrus watched her press and twist her foot, though it was clear there was no longer a need.

“Shepard,” he said softly, drowned in the rasp of her heavy breathing. Blinking, she saw some version of her horrific form reflected in his concerned face. Shepard felt alive, powerful, and the fear apparent in the faces of her squad mates only fed the seething black thing that had helped her kill the clan chief. Mordin looked down at the commander, his large eyes wide and still. He gave his sharp inhale, a trademark signal for ‘we’re done with this,’ tapping Shepard with an elegant, pointed finger.

“Let’s go. Running out of time, Shepard.” He made an impatient gesture and she finally moved, sliding off the krogan. The commander wiped her gore-streaked hands on her legs and walked ahead. As they went through the next door, and the giant room beyond, caught Garrus eyeing the vivid orange rivulets of blood caking on her armor.

Maelon, the purportedly kidnapped protégé, stood, unharmed, unrestrained and, more importantly, unalarmed at the far end of the room. The younger scientist turned and confronted his mentor as Mordin gasped his disbelief.

“I wanted to be here.” He explained. Shepard took in the salarian’s holo-program, the bitterness of his reaction to Solus and put a hand on the doctor’s arm, finding a tension there as scalding as his former colleague’s tone.

“He’s trying to cure the genophage,” she said and Mordin’s head whipped between the commander and the young scientist. “He’s here voluntarily.”

Teacher and student glared at each other.

“The team agreed-“ he shouted, but was cut off by Maelon’s high voice.

“Who could disagree with you? Me? Any of us?”

“Experiments. Live subjects. Prisoners. Your doing?” When the other did not respond, Mordin spread his arms. “It’s torture and execution.”

“Blood is blood. There so much of it on our hands, Mordin, what’s a little more?” He paced, looking down finally. “For a cure, I could deal with that.”

“Must you all, all of you, find some justification for this?” Shepard spoke up.

“No, not justified,” Maelon was stalking now, “Never. Not for the atrocity, this cultural genocide. You think these experiments were monstrous . . .it’s how I was taught.” Mordin seethed, but it was Shepard who stepped forward. Garrus felt the worrisome knot tighten in his stomach.

“This man would never teach killing in the name of science. You talk about these deaths as if it’s the same as the genophage but you know, you must know, that it can’t be compared.” She was beginning to lose it again. She looked down at her hands and was startled by the blood there, seeing it for the first time. It was similar to the way Mordin had reacted to the body of the krogan female. Shepard recognized the steel in the older salarian. They were similar, she and the doctor. They had led teams striving for greatness and found themselves faced, time and time again, with miserable odds and deep opposition. That they performed any minor miracles at all was secondary to the voices within them, unbearable in their honesty, which demanded more than could ever be reasonable.

“The galaxy is no safer. They were protectors, warriors. Now look at what’s happened. Batarian attacks, geth attacks, Eden Prime. We played god and we failed.” Maelon stared at Mordin, “It’s time to make it right, don’t you see?”

“What do you want to do with him?” Garrus spoke up and stepped beside Mordin.

“Have to end this,” he said.

Maelon, perceiving the threat more fully than Shepard or Garrus, pulled his pistol. But the older salarian was on him, Tempest pressed beneath the student’s quivering chin.

“Mordin! You’re not a murder.”

The doctor held his stance, and Maelon's involuntary trembling continued. Behind them, the Commander sucked at the flesh of her cheek, biting, and considered the benefit of allowing Mordin to end his protege's life. Two years ago she would hardly have paused. Ten minutes ago she had mutilated a living creature with her bare hands after trying so desperately to convince Mordin (and herself) that the krogan deserved better than they got. Though she wanted to look down at the dry, orange blood again, Shepard knew it would only deepen her shame. Instead, she looked to Garrus, wordless, and he had her six. The turian took at step toward them.

“Come on, doc. Is he really worth it?”

“A chance exists. He might continue the work.”

“Maybe, but it won't change anything he did here. Killing him is still killing in the name of science.” Garrus said, and cut is eyes over to Shepard. She nodded.

Mordin pulled back with pained deliberation, releasing Maelon. The younger scientist shook his head, pleading softly, “they didn’t deserve what we did to them.” A hard look, discernible perhaps only between salarians, slithered across Mordin’s scarred face, and Maelon turned and left them, crossing the long room and loping out into the too bright atrium. The doctor, the genius, did not watch him go. Instead, he slumped a little in front of the giant holo-display.

“Apologies, Shepard.”

“Hey, what's a little homicidal rage between friends?” Garrus spread his arms.

“It’s fine, Mordin.” She glowered at the turian and joined Mordin at the giant screen. He had been a teacher once. How cruel, she thought, looking at the glow of medical data before them, to discover his knowledge and skills so abused and so grossly misapplied.

“Should have killed him. Wanted to. Would have been easier than listening.”

It was on the tip of her tongue, her venomous tongue, to remind Mordin to think of Maelon any time he was feeling argumentative about the genophage in the future. But a sound from behind her broke their shared melancholy. Garrus cleared his throat. Shepard left Mordin at the console. Vigorous tapping commenced.

“Data. Maelon’s research. Only loose end. Could be dangerous. Could be valuable.” He extracted the files and stared into his omni-tool as if it housed a deadly predator. “Can’t know the effects. Too many variables.” Black eyes, their twin membranes fluttering, looked to Shepard for guidance. Reflexively, Garrus did the same. And as she considered the possibilities, he watched the tracery of fine scars on her jaw pulse with crimson light and then dim to nothing.

“It might be worth holding onto. If anyone can be trusted with it, I think it’s you, Mordin.”

He nodded. Matter closed. Its ugliness was swept temporarily beneath a veneer of resolute scientific discretion. The doctor glided past them and headed for the door. Garrus turned as well, but found a firm hand on his upper arm stopped him.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Please. I acted like . . .” she paused, seeing her hands disappearing into eye-sockets, blood and ichor welling up hot and thick as lava. Knowing Garrus had watched her do that made her heart shrivel and she didn’t like it the least bit. She held her hands out, gazing down at them as if they belonged to someone else.

“I won’t do it again.”

He shifted on his feet and tucked his mandibles, his discomfort so evident that it threatened to make Shepard laugh instead of continue in all seriousness. Garrus gave her a plain look.

“I can’t think of anything you did today to warrant an apology.”

“And yet that’s all I seem to be able to say.”

“Can we go? It’s not getting any less creepy in here. What with all the dead things festering in the hallways.”

“Just stop. Please be serious.” Arms dropped by her sides, hundreds of pounds heavier than they had been a second before. Her eyes followed, with their own incredible weight, studying the floor for a moment before seeking his. “I never want to make you look at me that way again.”

Under the sudden awareness of her despair, her friend and confidant grew even more nervous. She wasn’t particularly small, as human women went. Taller than most. And not some gamine, half-fed colony kid. Tali had once joked that Shepard could be regal as long as she stood very still and didn’t kill anything. But Garrus had always considered her a guiding force, despite her lack of diplomatic tact and her flexible moral outlook. None of it seemed to matter to him. Back in C-Sec, while investigating Saren, Garrus had written to his father about Shepard and in return the general had surprised him by suggesting that she made a decent turian. So she knew that the question of how he had looked at her bothered him on more than one level. They were friends, and they trusted each other. Anything beyond that either made him squirm or didn't matter at all.

“You are Shepard,” he said finally, shrugging. “And that’s how I’ll always see you.”

The commander accepted this terribly Vakarian answer with a small nod. What she might have expected was beyond her at that point. Adrenaline abandoned her in steady waves and exhaustion threatened to take its place.

“Okay let’s go.” She trudged into the atrium with Garrus at her side. Shepard smiled up at him, looking past the rim of his collar while shielding her eyes with the blade of her hand ”Jesus, I forgot how chatty you get.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Shepard dried her hair and padded around her cabin, marveling to herself how the act of showering felt so literally like becoming a new person that it drew attention to itself. Without meaning to she wondered if she’d ever heard Garrus mention how great showers were. Her feet stopped. She frowned and looked down at her desk. Why on earth would she care if Garrus liked showers? Minutes later when she was dressed and undergoing a bit of personal primp and inspection, she again asked the shower-voice why it mattered if the turian liked showers. And the shower-voice inside her replied, somewhat sheepishly, that perhaps the former officer was simply on her mind because of the recent mission and because of their prolonged absence from one another’s lives. They were close, after all. Thick as thieves her mother would say.

Which reminded her. She went to her terminal and opened it. The note from the captain still sat open. Dear Hannah Shepard, thanks for the concern . . .? Words between family, signifying what? Fingernails drummed the desktop. She snapped the computer closed. Beyond her laptop, a picture of Liara stood half in shadow. Then there was that. If sending a message to her family made her cringe, then the idea of contacting the asari filled her with absolute dread. So it should not have mattered that no message from Liara sat in her inbox as well. Shepard rubbed her eyes, sad that the fading pleasure of the shower was now replaced with the myriad worldly shit that could never seem to sort itself as elegantly as: wash, dry, happy.

She ducked into the bathroom for a quick glance and assessed herself. Cerberus had put her to rights with more care than she probably deserved. But scars, it seemed, would be her trademark through this life as much as they had been in the last. They were faint, at least, and unnoticeable if they didn’t glow. She traced the largest of these, a cracked web, so fine it might have been spider silk laid over her skin, spanned her jaw and right cheek. Miranda, and later Mordin, explained the light indicated her new cybernetic implants, and their reaction to her impulses and biotic amplifiers. Something like that. Necessarily, they would always be there. Blinking, Shepard’s nose pressed to the mirror. A fog had gathered. She stood back, dismayed at how overly monochromatic she seemed, taken as a whole. Burnt peach skin, red scars, gold eyes. Her mother’s hair was a proper red. What the commander saw in the mirror was the faded cadmium that could not be gold and feigned orange all but for the shock of white that grew in a long, sinuous stripe at front of her scalp.

It was a shock, literally, that had caused it in the first place. Mordin hypothesized that suffering the shock of exposure to deep space had caused the follicles to turn just before she had died. Shepard balked, but he had produced several dozen examples of just such a dramatic shift in other humans who had suffered debilitating trauma. This color change became a permanent part of her genetic structure in the few moments before her body gave out. When she had been rebuilt, the white remained.

With a bit of exasperated humor, as if it mattered at all, Shepard recalled Miranda’s unhappy response to this . . .aberration. The Cerberus operative took the rebuilding of Shepard’s body as a point of pride. As with the scars, the streak reminded Miranda that it hadn’t gone perfectly. Fingering the shiny white ribbon of hair, Shepard thought, at least the rest of it wasn’t _black_.

The commander let it be, moving through her cabin to the elevator. When she reached the crew deck her stomach roared to life. A small gathering of crew milled about in the mess hall. At any time one could never tell if a meal were about to begin or was just being cleared: evidence of twenty-four hour shift rotations. She felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Gardner and his workload. Nonetheless, Shepard made a beeline for the kitchen. The mess sergeant nodded at her. He pushed a metal thermos to her across the counter and turned to warm some indistinguishable mass he had set aside. Shepard grimaced, looking down into the container.

“Again?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Sadists. All of them.”

Gardner’s gray head bobbed amiably. The ‘shake’ contained a dizzying amalgam of proteins and synthetic boosters designed to restore higher biotic function. Before her death, Shepard’s L3 implants were nearly unheard of in humans. Cerberus had fewer regulations than the Alliance and more sophisticated hardware. So they had strapped her with biotics that outclassed her old amps in every way, but required a greater level of maintenance. Small price to pay. And though she appreciated the effort, Gardner made the gelatinous goop worse by attempting to flavor it. Shepard took a surreptitious sniff at the thermos. Today’s offender: banana.

“What else have you got?”

“Out of gumbo. But, I’ve got some leftover rice, and a questionable teriyaki to go with it.”

“Sergeant, doesn’t it seem, I don’t know, inhospitable to call your own food questionable?”

“If it were mine, yeah.” He unwrapped the steaming bowl and jabbed a spoon into it before sliding it across to her “But I don’t get a say. If you can do something about that, you let me know.”

“Point taken. I’ll get back to you.”

She took her thermos and her bowl and turned to the mess table. Everyone had vacated. Turning a little more she saw that Dr. Chakwas had darkened the med-bay light. No chance of chatting with the old gal there, either. She started to walk to the table, resigned to eating alone, when Gardner spoke from behind her.

“Vakarian just took his meal into the forward battery if you’re looking for company.”

When she faced him he was wiping down the counter and setting dishes in the washer, expression obscured in his work, unreadable. Shepard nodded, to no one, and strode down the corridor to the ship’s big guns. Shuffling her awkward items, she tapped out her entry on the door pad and it whisked open.

“Did you need me for something?”

At first she didn’t see him, then glancing to the right her eyes found him sitting in his bunk among stacks of datapads.

“Dinner.” She said, and Garrus nodded, reaching for his small, bedside table and dragging it between them. Shepard deposited her bowl and thermos on the table, beside what she assumed was the dismal turian meal Gardener concocted for him.

“I’d tell you to pull up a chair, but nobody gave me one.” He sniffed. She waved her hand and sat on the floor.

“Have the crew been nice to you?”

“So far. They are courteous, at least.” He picked up a datapad, dropped it just as quickly and rummaged through his food instead. “You vouch for them. That’s enough for me. Same goes for the squad.”

They ate in silence. Shepard found her demanding appetite overwhelmed her palate these days, and she consumed the questionable teriyaki with fervor. Eyeing the thermos, though, made her stomach turn. She set her bowl aside, sighing, and forced down half of it before her tongue could protest. Her gulping echoed, loud and smacky in the small space. When she lowered the thermos, gasping against the wretched brew, she found Garrus staring at her, fork hovering. Their eyes locked in the singular amusement of meal-sharing and Shepard laughed, setting the thermos down with a heavy clang. Unable to quell it, the turian chuckled too. A grimace pulled at his mandibles and he shook his head, setting his fork down.

“Damn that hurts. Don’t make me laugh. My face is . . .falling apart.”

She grinned at him. His bandages transformed the face she remembered. The paint remained, however, and she doubted his scars would last. She watched him stifle his laugh and fail, only to grunt with pain, which sparked a giggle from the sinister part of her.

“Pull it together, Vakarian.” She commanded, still smiling. “Hell, you were never pretty. Now, at least we match.”

“Yeah, I guess we do. I figured company doctors would be leaps and bounds ahead of Alliance medical. I’m surprised they didn’t . . .” he stopped, jaws clapping shut as he looked down into his bowl. Garrus clearly realized his mistake. The idea of Shepard’s vanity had not occurred to him. Human scars never faded, not entirely. He chanced to meet her eyes as she took another swig of her awful-smelling shake. Gagging sounds commenced. She set the thermos aside and shook herself, as if shrugging off a ghost.

“It’s okay,” she said dismissing his concerned look with smile, leaning her arms on the table. “There are worse things in the world than my scars. I’m pretty sure I just drank a viable candidate for _the_ worst.”

Garrus set down his bowl. When he was silent for too long she spoke again, her voice low.

“Lynn – Chakwas - looked into it for me. She found a device, a pretty expensive upgrade, actually, that would,” she swept a halting hand in front of her face, “fix it. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” Shepard gazed down at the little table, the remains of their meal so ordinary and perfect. “There are plenty of credits. More than we’ve ever seen. But it’s a stupid thing to spend them on.”

“Hey, some of us might need that equipment, Shepard.” Garrus touched his bandages, “That’s awfully selfish of you.”

She snorted and her smile returned. He stretched, rotating his head, and pulled off his visor, laying it next to his stack of datapads.

“What are you working on?”

“Leads. I’m looking for someone.” He pressed his knuckles against his eyes and rubbed. She could have pried, but Shepard sensed that the subject was, for now, off limits. So, she stacked their dishes and pushed the table back where it came from, looking for something to keep her there. Restlessness tugged at her brain. Meanwhile, Garrus tucked the datapads behind him and pushed himself back on his bunk, legs stretched out. Still, she wasn’t ready to go. Never one to fight her instincts, she reached beneath his cot and yanked the turian’s footlocker out so she would have something to sit on. The commander settled down, cross-legged, and Garrus looked at her.

“I feel like you’re about to interrogate me.”

“Spectres don't interrogate. We intimidate,” she said with an impish smirk. “No. I just want you to know how happy I am that you’re here.”

“Thank you for saving my ass.”

“That’s not what I mean. Thanking me isn’t the point.” When he looked away she felt the pieces Garrus slide together in her mind, creating a picture of the soldier, the friend, who had been left behind when she died. He talked about his team so infrequently, even to her, that she worried about the repercussions. They shared everything, so what did it mean that he guarded Omega's tragedy against her?

“Who you were on Omega, leading your team like that, it was the right call. I’m proud of what you did. Does that make sense?”

Morose, he shook his head.

“No, it doesn’t make sense. Everything fell apart. What exactly is there to be proud of? That I can’t lead a team on my own or that I can take a rocket to the face?” He sat up, long arms thrown around his knees. Shepard winced at his venom. “I got them all killed. They don’t give you the Star of Terra for that.” As the words left his mouth, Garrus closed his eyes. Using her medal to make a spiteful point demeaned them both. When he opened his eyes again Shepard was staring him, patiently. And to his shame, she smiled.

“If you want me to feel sorry for you then I guess we’re done here. Otherwise, I’d like you to hear me out. Please.” He gave no further protest. She continued, “You protected the weak. You inspired your team to do something selfless and exciting and noble.”

Garrus took a breath and looked at her,.

“If you let their deaths overshadow their good deeds then you diminish everything you fought for. Trust me on that. I didn’t pull you off Omega because you failed.” She leaned forward; imbued with the warmth she felt talking about him, _to_ him. Her hand snaked over his elbow and tugged until he let his arm fall and she could grasp his talons. He looked from her hand to the brightness of her eyes, letting her words gather in the space between them. “I pulled you off Omega because I need you. I was going to say I missed you, but that’s not it.” She squeezed the large, rough-plated hand, “There’s no way I can do this . . .won’t do it . . .without you.”

The turian reflected on her monologue and she accepted their shared silence, taking a deep breath. Restlessness subdued. Shepard released his hand and Garrus watched her sit up, scratching her hands through the faded flame of her hair. She searched his face, waiting. His mandibles fluttered.

“So, what you’re saying is no more rockets to the face?”

“Precisely.” She shoved his shoulder.

“Understood, commander. Anything else?”

“No, I think that’s as much woe-is-me and good-for-you as I can handle. Thanks for letting me crash your dinner.” She stood, gathered their bowls and her thermos, and sketched a servant’s bow to which he responded with a mock-impatient wave.

As she left the battery, unburdened and back to business, Garrus exhaled. All was well and good for her, but he’d be up for hours now. Letting him off the hook about her scars was a classic Shepard move. When he joined her to chase down Saren, her mettle had inspired him. But the price for that had been a ferocious and unpredictable mean-streak. Since her resurrection, Shepard had turned things on end. Garrus saw that, though her grit remained, kindness outshone the dark and angry bits.

Her words weighed as heavily as her touch had. It was a strange sensation for the turian. Twice today she looked at him and said “please.“ And twice his hide twitched beneath his plates at the sound of it. Her laugh, too, gave him a pleasant twinge. There were so few things to laugh about any more. That he could make her smile, the small flesh of her mouth giving way so easily to even, flat teeth, was a skill he had prided himself on almost as much as his accuracy with a weapon. Garrus considered their reunion a high-point in his recent, miserable experience. His reaction to her presence, her happiness, would necessarily be excessive. Still, he pushed at the physical things he felt until they hid themselves behind the greater issue. They were together again.

For him, Shepard would forever carry an unknowable quantity of strength. If she went a little nuts now and then, like what happened on Tuchanka, well, that was to be expected. Spirits, she had died, after all. But, as she stood there seeking his forgiveness, for what he could not even begin to imagine, Garrus had found himself at a loss. Alone on Omega, days without sleep, voices below carrying only the promise of death, Shepard often came to mind. In those moments he wished he had stayed aboard the Normandy. Long past the guilt of leaving, of imagining he could have changed the outcome, saved her somehow, he simply wanted to see her again. And then she had stormed up the stairs, flung her arms wide, and destroyed him with hope. Though she would hate to know it, her presence in that moment had been a bittersweet reminder of his failure. A darkness, he conceded, that she immediately cleansed by the unwavering faith she placed in him. The thought sent a foreign, trembling heartbeat thumping behind his chest plates

Garrus knuckled his eyes again, turning to grab the stack of datapads, the topmost of which revealed the location of a Blue Suns gangster named Fade.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horizon . . .where everybody knows your name.

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Multi famam, conscientiam pauci verentur.

 _Many fear their reputation, few their conscience._

Pliny the Younger

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Glowing cracked skin radiated like a sunburst held within scorched earth. The body, once a drone, the last of many in this place at least, lifted from the ground and was consumed with a fiery pulse. Shepard panted, flattening against the transmitter wall, watching this metamorphosis for the hundredth time since their arrival on the colony. She willed her brain to catalog, learn, adapt. She was fed up with it. Somewhere hidden, as per his style, Thane’s rifle sang, and was joined by an echoing shot from Garrus to her left. Snipers. Always a pissing contest.

The possessed Collector dropped, faltering, and she moved forward, bracing her own, modest weapon against her shoulder. The Widow ruptured the courtyard air, yet the Harbinger remained, lobbing his tedious, glowing orbs.

Shepard stood, washed in sweat, and moved forward. This thing did not see her. Somewhere inside the vast ship, a puppet master watched the fight through purloined eyes. She preferred the wicked flush she got from eyes full of fear. Harbinger’s drone mouthpiece buzzed with its hollow, ageless voice. The voice of many creeping out to meet her. A hive mind, connected not unlike the geth, but with an unmistakable organic ego.

“I will show you true power.”

“I bet mine’s bigger.”

Bringing her hands together, Shepard focused her biotic cloud. It consumed the possessed drone and slammed the sinewy body against Horizon’s reinforced wall. A rifle shot zinged past the commander’s left ear and the Collector’s brainpan disintegrated against the concrete.

“Scratch one!”

“Above.” Thane’s calm voice came over the comm. link and Shepard took cover. Watching a new horror descend on them from the mongrelized Collector ship. It dipped into the courtyard, insect legs dangling beneath a shiny, black carapace. As she watched, the flying menace sliced through the middle of the yard with an energy beam, searing and destroying everything in a scorched line. Catalog, learn, she reminded herself. What did this laser-beam monstrosity teach her? 

“EDI!?”

“I don’t know what it is, Commander.”

“Don’t get too chummy with it,” Garrus called. He was perched behind the railing of the low maintenance building. Shepard bolted for the transmitter wall, sliding behind it as the floating thing targeted her. 

“Move, Shepard.” Even in combat, Thane managed to make a command sound like a suggestion. What a great idea, she thought, and circled the transmitter wall with the black menace trailing her like a persistent admirer. Sniper fire tore through the courtyard, giving her enough cover to put some distance between herself and her new friend.

“Batteries at one hundred percent. I have control, Commander.”

“By all means, EDI, fire at will.”

Shepard vaulted her third set of crates and still the monster was on her like a shadow. She ducked as a brilliant blue beam sliced away the stack of tires to her left, the smell of ozone and melting rubber assaulting her over-stimulated senses. The Widow proved too lumbering. There was no time to steady it before having to duck again and move. Multiple shots exploded against its shields and it dropped with a shuddering thud to the dry earth of the courtyard. Shepard glanced down the battlefield, scanning, and her gold eyes landed on a tempting item. Learn. Adapt.

“Firing anti-ship batteries at the Collector vessel.” EDI reported. And Horizon’s defenses came online, blasting with precision against the deformed ship.

“Hey guys, do me a favor and keep it off me for a minute.”

She cloaked and bolted. Streaming past the black beetle of death, legs blurring. A cacophony of whip-cracks battered the waking leviathan. Twin rifles playing the same tune. Shepard grinned to herself as she raced, hurdled, and ducked. In a shady spot, near the exterior wall where the shattered Collector drone had emptied its unimpressive brains, the Commander found her prize. She held out her omni-tool and scanned the weapon she found there. Thick, rough and mangled as a tree root, the Collector weapon hummed to life as she hefted it. Human fingers, glowing along their cracked spaces, slid into place. The pads of her fingers found the weapon’s core and stroked lightly along pathways built of warm tendons. Not only did she feel the weapon's innate power, Shepard's mind _saw_ it. Like a flash from a half-remembered dream, she envisioned the particle beam's interior and her hands responded. She plucked the bundle of fibers with more confidence and was rewarded with a jolt and a muscular pulse of energy burst from the tip.

“Thank you, darling,” she crooned at the weapon, shaking her head at the attraction she felt to the technology.

Moving in a wide arc, Shepard loosed the Collector weapon on the flying creature. The streaking red beam crackled and tore at the thing’s face, disrupting the emerging blue beam. Her trajectory took her behind cover, but with the two Incisors still chirping away she hardly needed it. The weapon felt alien and yet familiar. It responded faster, more fluidly, than anything she’d ever used. Like a true extension. Her scars lit up, pulsing. The floating tank reeled and Shepard’s beam screamed through its body, melting and charring the mingled organic and synthetic components. As a final defense, it mushroomed, exploding with all its remaining energy, and collapsed in a firework of blue sparks. Shepard flew, blown back against the low building below Garrus’ sniper perch. Her throaty laughter carried through the courtyard as the batteries continued to fire and sniper shots ceased. She looked up, giddy, and found Garrus leaning over the railing. A quick thumbs-up reassured him.

“You have to try this thing.”

“But, I love my rifle.”

“I know.”

She picked herself up as Thane materialized from who knew where, striding across the yard as if to ask her the time of day. A vibration trembled in her arms, traveling to her heart. The Collector weapon dampened its hum and slept at last. It left her wanting more. The three of them reconvened at the transmitter console. Garrus looked up, shielding his eyes. 

“It looks like they’re-“

With a tremendous squall, the Collector vessel released its landing gear and boomed to life, drowning half the colony in a tidal wave of fire and fuel exhaust. For the second time, Shepard was knocked flat as were the other two. Against the glare of Horizon’s white sun, she watched the ship climb into orbit. Beside her, Garrus grunted, sitting up. She pushed herself upright and took Thane’s offered hand. The turian examined the vessel through his scope and looked to Shepard. 

“They weren’t afraid. No reason to stay. They got what they came for.” 

“Half the colony, it seems. If not more.” Thane said, nodding at his assessment. The drell tensed and nodded at point beyond the commander’s shoulder. She and Garrus turned to find a man running into the yard. Shepard’s hand came up and hailed Delan as he ran. They had found him earlier, hiding in a bunker, as they moved through the eerie stillness of the colony.

“NO! Don’t just let them GO. Go after them!” Delan screamed and wheeled on the three of them.

“We did everything we could.” Shepard looked at her squad mates. Garrus waved a hand at the blackened trail of smoke disappearing into the atmosphere above them.

“If it wasn’t for Shepard you’d _all_ be on that ship.”

“You’re . . .Shepard? You’re some kind of big-shot Alliance hero, right?”

A male voice echoed, moving out from behind the safe zone where Delan had emerged.

“Commander Shepard. Captain of the Normandy. The first human Spectre. Savior of the Citadel” A figure drifted past the bunker wall and approached their small group.

Most people would never know how lucky they were, Shepard thought, to be able to revel in finding an old friend, to hear a voice that cared for them, and to feel the joyful, easy press of memories like one hand fitting into another. Kaidan Alenko's voice held bitterness and hurt, and it was all directed at her. Whatever joy his face might have brought her was incinerated by his tone. His tone said she had avoided him, forgotten him in favor of so many other things. She fought the burning that rose in her chest as Kaidan took careful steps to stand in front of her. Those effortless, loving reunions belonged to everyone else, it seemed, not her. His dark eyes held her down while she silently imploded.

“You’re in the presence of a legend. And a ghost.”

Shepard gazed evenly at him. The Skyllian Blitz rushed forward in her mind, and all the pain and terror that came with it. If she could survive the Blitz, if she could wake up from death and discover she owed her life to Cerberus she could deal with Kaidan’s disconsolate needling. And she certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of speaking first. Instead, she surprised herself. Closing the space between them, she took the man’s shoulders and pulled him to her. And for a brief moment he seemed to let himself remember that they were friends and hugged her back.

“You were dead, Shepard. What happened?”

 

“If you could sound a little less disappointed I might think you were happy to see me.” Thane shifted, behind her. Garrus, too, could not help shuffling. Alenko’s face, his composure weakened. If he had wanted to start with some less raw thing he seemed to change his mind and surrender to pain.

“What do you want me to say? I didn’t _just_ mourn you. It tore me apart. Two years, and I thought that-“

Shepard dropped her head, shaking the waves of pale copper. She gripped Alenko’s arm and pulled him several feet away. In her periphery, she witnessed Thane put a hand to the turian’s chest as he tried to follow.

Kaidan removed himself from her grip and Shepard crossed her arms. It was her turn to pin him, gold eyes flaring, making him squirm. His anger belonged to her, but her squad didn’t have to suffer it as well.

“I didn’t warrant a call? After everything, you came back from death and not once did you think I might like to hear from you?”

“Do you know much about being dead? Stop me if you do, but I can tell you that it took me two years just to get off a table. You suffered, Kaidan, and for that I'm sorry, but don’t pretend like I ever promised you-”

“Bullshit. You haven’t called Liara, either. Please enlighten me about that. I want you to. Because then I can tell you how we shared this particular heartbreak all by ourselves for the last two years.”

She swallowed and looked away, flames climbing from her cheeks to her eyes in a stinging wave. Her high ground gave way and Shepard thought of Liara as she has looked aboard the disintegrating Normandy. No, there was no counter-attack for that jab. Only a few steps away, Garrus paced, keeping an eye on her. Shepard watched him, distracted by his sudden anger, and felt some brief comfort in that. She pushed her self-pity into a deep, dark hole before looking back to Alenko.

“If I had known you would prefer this, opening old wounds instead of moving on, then yes, I would have contacted you. Right after I woke up, fell off the table, and had to shoot my way through a station full of mechs.” She turned and walked back to her team. But, his voice followed. Heavy, angry footsteps fell in behind her.

“I did move on. Then I get reports that you’re alive. And you’re working with the enemy. With Cerberus.”

Garrus watched Shepard’s color rise, the wire-thin scars ablaze, as she came toward him, ignoring their old teammate.

“Reports? You mean you knew?” he asked over her head, moving toward Kaidan.

“The Alliance got a tip about Horizon. They already suspected Cerberus. The rumors about you were part of that.” 

She wheeled on him and he pulled up short to keep from running into her.

“I’m getting a little tired of explaining this, but I’ll do it one last time. Because we’re friends.” The word had never sounded less inviting in her mouth. “While Cerberus and I share the same goals I do _not_ answer to them.”

The dark-haired biotic cocked his head. But, he didn’t struggle with the words that came next. 

“How can I believe anything you say now? Do _you_ actually believe it? You’re a piece of Cerberus hardware. If this is how you come back to me, to all of us, then I’d rather you hadn’t. I’d rather remember the woman who would never have betrayed us like this.” 

Shepard’s lungs contracted. The farce of her life seemed to dance in her brain. How fitting that her former persona had earned her such fickle loyalties, and that someone who should have cared for her preferred the charred and bloody corpse version over the living, breathing person. Unable to breathe, her body shuttered itself against Kaidan's words and Shepard looked to her squad, then down at the ground. She barely heard Garrus curse, heavy turian growls boiling from his throat. The colonist, Delan, threw up his hands and stomped off. Helpless, she could only look at the rigid hurt transforming the face in front of her. Thane was having a hard enough time calming Garrus, but the drell came forward anyway, sensing Shepard’s distress. She held up her hand. Wouldn’t Mordin like to see her now? It would be easier to shoot Kaidan than hear another accusation clothed in his infatuated memory of her.

“If you knew me like you claim to, then you would know I’d only do this for the right reasons. And only on my terms. Collectors are abducting whole colonies. Does it matter who gives me the gun as long as I can shoot them?”

“Yeah. And what if Cerberus just wants to use you? Prey on the Reaper threat. Who says Cerberus isn’t behind the Collectors themselves?”

Breaking point reached, Garrus shoved himself between Shepard and Alenko, pointing a talon at his old squad mate.

“You’re so obsessed with Cerberus you can’t even acknowledge the real threat! Grow up, Kaidan. Open your eyes.”

“Garrus.” She took in his quick breathing, the threatening flare of mandibles. The last thing she needed was her right hand locked in an Alliance prison. It was under control. Why must he complicate it? When Garrus didn’t respond, only continued to stare down Kaidan, Shepard went around him. Looking up into the hard-set turian eyes, she gripped the front rim of his collar and gave a small but firm shove. And he stepped back. But only a little. She turned again to Alenko. The commander, the leader within her, regained the helm and cut away all the moorings that lashed her to Kaidan’s version of the truth. “There’s nothing I can say to make you understand. You won’t listen to reason.”

“What part of this is reasonable?” He shook his head. When she caught his eyes again Shepard saw the young man, powerful and driven, that she had been so proud to serve with. As if reading himself in her bright, amber gaze, Alenko continued, softer this time. “I’m an Alliance soldier, always will be.”

“Then I could use you on my team.” She crossed her arms. Once upon a time, appealing to his need to be near her would have worked. But even as she offered, Shepard knew Kaidan would not submit this time. His grief was too close. Again, Liara came forward in her mind and she could no more blame the man for his reaction than she would the asari. After this, if the courage ever materialized for her to attempt _that_ reunion it would be a miracle.

“If you knew me like you claim to,” he said, swallowing back the larger bitterness in his tone, “you wouldn’t ask me that.”

The soldier moved past her, heading slowly for the bunker where an unseen group of colonists presumably huddled, waiting to hear the all-clear. Kaidan stopped and gave Shepard his attention one last time.

“I’m about to go to the Citadel and make my report about what happened here. Anderson will hear about it, but it’s up to the Council as a whole to decide if you’re telling the truth.”

The Council. What gall. He truly refused to understand. Rage, pure and haunting, welled up and pulsed from her spider silk scars. Biotic energy tore through her nerves and Shepard could not quell the outward response. Cold blue flames burst and licked along her body, surprising Kaidan. She itched to throw him against the bunker wall. But more than that she wanted to show him, to pry open his mind and horrify him with everything she knew about the coming storm.

“You do that,” she said. “And when you’re ready to stop looking at the microscopic part of the big, terrible picture, you know where to find me.”

“So long, Shepard. Be careful.”

She watched him go, unsure if he meant it and mortified by how much she cared. Silence descended on the courtyard. Only the fading crackle of Shepard’s biotics could be heard above the swirl of dead leaves and harmless insects. She put a hand to her forehead, sighing below her glove.

“I never felt bad about dropping out of Spectre training before now. Spectres can punch anyone they want, right?” Garrus appeared next to her, arms crossed.

“Commander, you are correct. He is blind to the reality of the Collectors.” Thane’s rich vibrato echoed in her chest, but did not soothe her. Shepard stood, quiet and still, while her team of unnaturally concerned snipers watched over her. She looked at the space where Kaidan had been.

“He was on the Normandy. When the Collector ship sliced it in half. When I got spaced.”

Garrus looked down at her, past the orange-gold of her hair, with its odd stripe, to the flags of red fading on the tops of her cheeks. Under his scrutiny, she gave him a knowing smile.

“It’s better you weren’t there. Kaidan has lost perspective. I can’t help but feel that escaping the Normandy, when I didn’t, is part of that.” She inhaled, deep and cleansing, and waved a dismissive hand, “Believe it or not, he used to be more open. Now he thinks that simply being a good soldier is the same as doing good in the world.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with him here.” Garrus found his talons resting on her shoulder. And as on Tuchanka, he was loathe to remove them. A bass rumbling came from the assassin, hands held firmly behind his back.

“Perhaps it would be better if we returned to the Normandy as soon as possible.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Shepard pressed her mouthpiece and called for Joker. “Send the shuttle. We’re ready to blow this popsicle stand.”

Like a pair of synchronized swimmers, Garrus and Thane looked at their omni-tools, brows furrowing in unison. Translating idioms would forever tickle her. She burst out laughing, and the sound of her brief but unfettered joy echoed in the sunny courtyard.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cramped places and head-spaces.

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Bonis quod bene fit haud perit.

 _Whatever is done for good men is never done in vain._

Plautus

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The observation window above her bed showed the commander a slow-wheeling cluster as the Normandy turned into its course for the Milky Way. Rather, the window would have shown this, if Shepard ever opened the shutters. Instead the metal cover remained locked tight. Waking up the first night aboard the new ship, she had panicked, nightmares clawing their way into her waking life. Wide eyes sensed that the window would give way and she would be drawn, screaming, into space. No suit. No protection. Just the unending pain of ice crushing her veins, and lungs shattering like roses in liquid nitrogen.

She sprawled on the bed, not seeing the stars and feeling perfectly okay about that. There were other things to feel not so great about, like going to Illium. Liara would know about the assassin's recruitment. She would know Shepard had been there and pointedly avoided her. Her eyes ached for sleep. But she was still dressed, still fully awake. In a few hours she would be standing with Liara, praying things went better than they had with Kaidan. Like as not she would have trouble putting aside her more basic reactions, taking in the color of her skin, its texture and motion, and how well she remembered the sound of the asari's voice against her neck. How well she remembered most everything. She groaned unhappily in the empty cabin.

Getting up, she went to her desk and clicked open the terminal. Was there any need to reply? Kaidan had apologized, in his way. She supposed there was a virtue in being gracious, but no words came. None she wanted to share with him. They were never involved, not in the way he had wanted, and she feared any response would only encourage him despite his assurance that he had moved on. She shut the terminal. Stretching, she stood and lumbered up the two steps to the bathroom. Restless again. Not a shower, not food. What? Frustrated, she let her head lean sideways against the bathroom wall.

What troubled her was to know how Kaidan and Liara had mourned her, discussed her. It was a fair bet that too much that was no one's business had likely been said in grief. Didn't they know it was rude to speak of the dead? It would feel strange to stand in front of Liara and try not to ask her which things she'd shared with Alenko. They had been squad mates, too, after all, and nearly died alongside her. The only one of them that had accepted her outright was Garrus. And Shepard found that to be as fulfilling as it was unsurprising. Like coming home after war and touching the million, precious little things she thought were lost to her. She closed her eyes and half-remembered a larger hand in hers, rough and plated.

A sound in the wall caught her ear. Not mechanical. Intermittent. Pressing her ear like a suction cup to the wall, she held her breath. Something like clawing. Good God, did the Normandy already have vermin?

"EDI I hear a sound in the wall. Have you scanned the Normandy for pests?"

"Commander, the Normandy is clean and pest-free."

"You're sure?"

"Of course, commander."

The muted sound of movement fluttered through the wall again. Shepard left her cabin and headed for the elevator. Inside, she spoke to the AI again.

"We have maintenance shafts, correct?"

"Yes. You may access them from both the laboratory and the AI core within the medical bay."

"Is someone working in there right now?" A pause from EDI.

"No, commander. Sensors reported false movements several minutes ago. Further scans have shown no life signs in the maintenance shafts."

"They're about to."

Shepard exited the elevator on the crew deck and hooked a left, striding to the med-bay. The room was dark with pockets of cool gray light from the kitchen permeating here and there. She crossed to the AI core and tapped her entry into the console. Just inside, to the left, she found the hatch to the maintenance shaft. As she bent to open it, she stopped. Her omni-tool flared to life and she inspected the hatch cover. No marks or smudges. It was pristine. And that bothered her because the floor around the hatch was covered in a fine layer of dust. She checked again, swiping a finger across the top. Not even a flake of dandruff. Curiouser and curiouser. Her heart gave a double-tap to approve of the adventure. With a flick and a minute hiss of air the hatch was open and Shepard descended into darkness.

Miniscule red lights arrayed the ladder between rungs and Shepard found the space small but by no means uncomfortably tight. Even with the pinpricks of red light, though, the shaft was incredibly dark. She had left the hatch open, but neglected to turn on a light in the AI core. No help there. The grayish luminance would not penetrate. So, she kept going, swallowed in black. The air changed, became warmer. The steady whoom-whoom of the core and its support system grew louder. Even the pressure changed. She popped her ears and kept going down. Booted feet touched a bend in the shaft. Shepard looked down, but knew she would simply have to feel her way. The way ahead seemed to be a ninety-degree turn, meaning Shepard would end up going the rest of the way on her back. The ladder continued, as well, halving the shaft with just enough room to slide around it on either side. So, she had a choice, she could lay on top of the ladder and scoot down the rest of the way, or lay beneath it and use the rungs to push herself along. She chose the latter.

But as she made the move, squeezing to the opposite side of the ladder and sitting down in the bend of the shaft, she heard a noise. Fabric. No. Leather. The sound of leather twisting, and a faint, almost inaudible metal clink. Shepard cursed herself inwardly. No one knew she was here. She had no weapon. There was barely room to draw one. Deciding it was better to know than not know, she moved, settling onto her back and gripping the ladder. For ten or fifteen feet, she slid, pushing herself through the shaft using the ladder, tunic bunching under her lower back, dust filling her nose. And then she heard the same series of noises. Leather, shifting, metal clink. Unlike before, however, they were not faint. No, not at all. But they had been so quick she barely caught them. Her own breathing was all she could hear outside of the engine. Fuck this, she thought. Her omni-tool shimmered to life and filled the shaft with its amber glow. Directly above her, on the other side of the ladder, a hovering face was illuminated. Shepard screamed, voice piercing the small enclosure. She gasped. Waving the tool around the ladder she saw that it was Thane.

"Fuck you!" She exhaled. Her heart lobbed, ready to vacate her chest. The assassin was pressed as far against the top of the shaft as he could manage. If she hadn't turned on her omni-tool she would have passed right underneath him and never known he was there.

"I'm very sorry. I can explain."

"Not warm enough for you in Life Support?"

"No, that's not it."

"Well, you can tell me all about it, but if I don't get out of here I'm going to scream again."

She huffed and Thane heard her muttering. They continued their journey through the shaft. He let her go ahead, following closely behind. His vision allowed him to see her bright head moving below him though she was not able to see him at all. Twenty more feet and the shaft widened all around them. Shepard's feet clanged on a hard barrier.

"The exit hatch." Thane offered.

"Yes, thank you. Would you mind?" From the underside of the ladder, she couldn't reach it. And though she prided herself on her flexibility, Shepard was fairly certain she could not turn around. Thane, however, put everyone to shame in the tight-spaces arena. With not a little wonder and admiration, she watched him turn and fold, then expand again in the opposite direction. Like a piece of cloth rolling in water. She heard the now-familiar click and hiss of the hatch and warm light filled the shaft. Looking up, the assassin's boots were just above her face, then they whisked away as he pulled himself out. As she wriggled toward the exit, strong hands gripped her ankles and hauled her the rest of the way. Shepard dropped out of the opening into a half-lit alcove lined with metal grating and full of mostly red light. Engineering.

"Well, that was an adventure." She said, brushing herself off. He nodded, latching the round door back in place.

"Again, I apologize for startling you."

"What were you doing in there?"

"I suppose you might say I was practicing."

"I can see how it might be handy to just scare the ever-living shit out of an enemy instead of shooting them. Would save us on ammo." She moved to sit on the stairs, pulling her knees up, and Thane followed, leaning over the low arm rail to look down at her.

"My conditioning forces me to be constantly aware of my environment. Expose weaknesses, investigate entry and exit points, make note of personalities, routines and how those things might be exploited."

"You've been doing this since you came aboard the Normandy?"

"Yes. Whenever possible. And when I'm feeling up to it. Some areas of the ship are exceptionally cold. And damp."

"I can't even imagine how exhausting it must be. The Normandy isn't huge, but the size of its crew is nothing to sneeze at. Add the squad members and you must be one busy tunnel-dweller."

She watched his green head swivel to take in the metal and shadow that comprised the lower Engineering deck. While the drell had never appeared uncomfortable aboard the ship, Shepard began to see how he might struggle among the myriad personalities they had collected. Thane rubbed his hands together and met her gaze.

"I've never lived, or worked, with so many before. It's true." He looked down between his propped forearms. If he suffered, Shepard thought, he kept remarkable composure about it. Stretching her legs, the commander leaned back to study his face.

"What could I do to convince you to take a break from assessing every little thing on the Normandy? It can't be good. The constant stress."

"Though I have witnessed the nearly limitless power of your persuasion, Shepard, in this case I think you would have an easier time asking Grunt to relinquish his shotgun."

"That bad, huh?"

"It's not a problem. I do not feel overburdened. This need to explore and catalog is as natural and involuntary to me as your laughter is to you."

Shepard tried to recall instances in which she had laughed in Thane's presence. Either she did it so often that she couldn't think of one, or she did it so rarely that it slipped her mind. Though laughing on Horizon after the unpleasantness with Kaidan had felt truly wonderful.

"Laughter. That doesn't strike me as a great dissimilarity between our races. I mean, drell have humor. I've seen you smile and laugh." Was that true, or was she just projecting?

"Yes. Though it's been a very long time since it came easily." A shadow passed over his great black eyes. "I only used it as an example in this case because seem to have a great affinity for it, so it has become natural to you."

"Maybe so." She was quiet for a bit as he gazed down at her, and she felt comfortable holding his gaze with her gold eyes. "May I ask you not to spy on our crew and squad members?"

"I do not consider what I'm doing spying. I would not seek to use the information I have gathered against them."

"They won't make that distinction if they find out." She rubbed the tops of her knees and stood. "For unit cohesion, I have to insist. Do I have your word?" She kept her spot on the higher step and held her hand out to the assassin. He gave her an even smile and shook her hand, inclining his head in a bow.

"As you wish, commander. Adaptation is among my best qualities."

"You're sure it's not modesty?"

When she smiled at her own joke, Thane gifted her with a gentle chuckle. As she released the cool, reptilian hand, a snarling scream issued from the room around the corner, followed closely by a ceramic mug flying out of the darkness to smash against the wall by the stairs.

"Get a goddamn room! This one's taken, and I'm trying to FUCKING SLEEP!" Jack cried, her enormous energy palpable even when she couldn't be seen.

Shepard stifled a laugh, proving Thane's point so beautifully that the assassin smiled as well. She jerked her head toward the stairs and the two of them crept the two flights to the top. Unable to help herself, the commander leaned over the railing and shouted.

"Goodnight, Jack!"

A beat. Then a datapad hurtled across the floor and cracked on the lower stairs. When she looked at Thane he wasn't smiling, exactly, but attempting a bit of reproach.

"Oh, come on."

He looked at her quizzically then. A pleasant, low trill preceded his voice by a fraction of a second.

"Commander, what are you doing up? What made you come exploring the maintenance shafts?"

She mirrored his expression. Outside of Garrus she had no one to talk to on the ship. Not about matters of . . .history. Thane possessed three ideal qualities that met her immediate needs. He was adept at studying people. He did not know her well. And he would never be caught dead gossiping. She admitted she could use company as well as the outsider's analysis.

"I'll buy you a cup of coffee, and we'll talk about it."

When he didn't move, she sighed.

"Tea?"

That apeared to do the trick. The pair of them headed for the elevator. Once they made it to the crew deck the ship seemed even quieter than when Shepard had slipped into the shaft. She opened and closed three cupboards before finding a box with what they needed. As she sorted through the varieties, Thane found an insta-kettle and soon the ritual of tea commenced.

With fragrant mugs burning their fingertips, the titian commander and the gentleman assassin moved their late-night intrigue to his quarters in Life Support. She perched on the window ledge overlooking the drive-core while Thane took a seat at the table. For several moments, neither spoke.

"You appear to have the same need for exploration that I do. At least in some capacity."

"Nah. I couldn't sleep. Too restless. It was total coincidence. I happened to hear you through the wall in my bathroom. EDI insisted there were no pests in the walls, so I investigated."

"Ah, EDI. I was in the process of testing her this evening, actually. Before you showed up in the maintenance shaft I was attempting to move slowly, and lower my heart rate enough that her sensors would look me over. The heat in the shaft also masks my signature," He sipped, thoughtful, "though not as well as during the day shift when the core runs hotter."

"My, you have been busy. " She tried to drink her tea. The Normandy had synthetic honey, but she found it revolting. Tea with real honey reminded her of the brief, lovely moments she had spent with her father aboard his ship as a child. He never traveled without a personal stash of real honey, expensive, rare, and thoroughly amazing. After a few bitter sips, she set her mug aside and hopped from the window ledge to join Thane at the table.

"May I ask you to weigh in on what you saw yesterday on Horizon?"

"What I saw with the Collectors, or about the confrontation with the Alliance commander? Alenko."

"The latter, if it won't make you uncomfortable."

He looked down, touching the rim of his cup at four points with his thumbs and forefingers, seeming to gauge what might be appropriate to share with her. She put him on the spot. But, that's what she wanted from him. He would have to get used to that feeling eventually, she thought.

"I don't know your history with the man. Only what I saw. Not unlike seeing a star and claiming to know the whole of the galaxy."

"You said your arm is mine. For me, that extends to your mind. I'd like to know what your powers of observation told you about the little scene we had." She leaned back in her chair and laced her fingers loosely in her lap. "You won't pretend you didn't make note of it. How I reacted, what it says about me, about Kaidan. And about Garrus, too, for that matter."

"Fair enough." He held her eyes and turned his cup in a slow circle. "My impression is that you feel Alenko spoke true, in part, and that you feel guilty for not living up to his expectations. This does not appear to greatly alter your confidence in leadership, however. As for the more personal insinuations, I can only say that he clearly loves you and would not feel so betrayed otherwise."

She nodded, eyes drifting shut as the image of Kaidan's face, full of hurt, refused to dematerialize. Thane took a deep breath, waiting for some indication from her.

"By all means. You're just scratching the surface."

"You do not reciprocate. You embraced him. But only to throw him off. Which tells me that you are capable of feigning vulnerability if it suits you. You accept his adoration of you as a matter of course. You told no one from your earlier days that you were alive. Having seen Alenko's reaction I can guess you feel as if you are put to an impossible standard. You resent it." At that he took a sip, and a deep sound of satisfaction burbled in his chest. "Though you do not have the same issue with Vakarian."

"Okay. What about Alenko? You were right. We were close. He pushed for more, I said no, and I guess he never really bounced back from it. It was the right decision, though."

"Again, this is my observation. Do not feel as if my interpretation carries any weight. You asked, and I want you to feel you're getting your money's worth out of me."

She laughed. Not a sparkly sound, as before, but it made the drell smile anyway.

"Oh, I do. More than I bargained for. One day I'll turn the spotlight on you as payback."

"As I said before, your ability to persuade is quite impressive, but you will not find me as eager to divulge my life as you are. Not yet."

"Yet? That's promising."

"It's the steady drop that carves the stone, Shepard."

"So true. And don't think I'm not flattered to be compared to a persistent and annoying stream of water that wears things down."

"Persistent? Yes. Annoying? Never." He finished his tea and got up from the table. As he moved to take her cup from the window ledge he asked, "Would you like me to continue?"

Shepard found her mouth dry and her brain still buzzing with unspent evaluation or energy, unsure of which. She held her hand out for her tea.

"It's cold."

"Doesn't matter. And yes, please continue. To the bitter end."

Thane gave a slight shrug and handed it over. His disgust over her first gulps of cold tea made her smile. He re-seated himself and folded his hands in front of him on the table. Shepard watched his careful manner with heartfelt appreciation. In another life, one without the Compact, or assassins, or Kepral's Syndrome, Thane would have made the most wonderful counselor.

"There's not much more to tell. You were correct in your own assessment. His devotion to service comes at the expense of a true calling, and is probably a response to losing you as a guiding force."

"There's someone else to consider."

The Commander took a steadying breath and then deflated, sliding down into her chair like a child awaiting punishment. Thane opened his mouth, but closed it again, waiting for Shepard.

"Does the name Liara T'Soni mean anything to you?"

"You certainly run in interesting circles." He leaned back. "The asari is an information broker. I studied her while preparing for the Dantius commission. T'Soni is a pureblood, interested in Prothean relics. She has several in her apartment on Illium." He paused, seeming to consider whether to go on. "As well as a piece of your armor, though I don't know how she acquired it."

Shepard stared at him. If it weren't full of tea, her mouth would have fallen open. She swallowed. Of course Thane had been in her apartment. From what she had read before deciding to head to Illium, Liara had information on just about anything that happened in Nos Astra and beyond. It would be the first place an assassin would target to get intel on Nassana Dantius.

"Then you must know she was part of my squad."

"Yes, and presumably she took the place that Alenko would have liked to occupy?"

"How pretty it sounds. Yes. We loved each other. I would have thought we still did, but as you know, I haven't tried to talk to her since coming back. When we came to recruit you, I could have met with her, but I . . .refused myself, I guess. And she hasn't called on me." Shepard leaned heavily on the tabletop, burying both hands in her hair. Time had wrenched things from her grasp. Stopping to consider any number of reasons why Liara wasn't at her side when she woke up led her down dark corridors of pain and paranoia. It had been easier to shut herself up in the new Normandy and wait for time to resolve it.

"I have never seen you together. She is an exceptionally guarded personality on the nets and so there is little help I can offer in the case of T'Soni, outside of her extensive information database. And much of that is expertly encrypted."

Shepard waved vaguely. "I'll be seeing her tomorrow. Or today. I guess we've been up late. I'm so sorry to keep you." She came back to herself, feeling guilty for having Thane play babysitter to her brain and her ego. Standing, she stretched the kinks from her back, and the assassin stood as well.

"Commander, in the interest of a full analysis, we haven't discussed the other person on Horizon. But if you're tired we can finish another time."

"You mean Garrus? Well, that should be interesting." She sat on the table, brightness returning to her amber gaze.

"Vakarian is unlike most turians I've encountered. He possesses great skill and confidence, but sometimes appears conflicted on issues of service and morality. I don't know if he came to you this way, or was shaped by your experiences together." Thane crossed his arms, "Your squad was small and very close, as you said. Vakarian should have been glad to see his friend, even in the face of the man's accusations."

Shepard nodded. "They weren't like brothers or anything. But they both excelled in battle and came to me looking to make a difference. Like they couldn't wait to be heroes. That's all me, I guess. And they shared a love of the fight."

"More than that. They shared you."

"What? How do you mean?"

The assassin uncrossed his arms and came to sit next to Shepard on the table. For such a private creature he was on a roll this evening.

"There are sounds, frequencies, outside of human hearing, that all races make when they are happy, or scared . . .or want to threaten someone. From the moment Alenko spoke to you, the turian was on edge. Violent sounds came off of him in waves. By the time you pulled the man aside, out of our range, Vakarian was ready to attack him."

She recalled the courtyard, how Garrus had stalked back and forth, how the drell had to restrain him. At the time she thought of it as a natural sort of protectiveness. But in truth, she'd never seen him like that.

"Garrus was just looking out for me. All of us would do the same for one another."

"And when Alenko suggested that he would rather you were dead than returned to him through Cerberus, Vakarian sincerely wanted to kill him. It may have seemed like simple shouting in anger, but some things cannot be concealed. The only thing that stopped him was deference to you."

"That's crazy. Garrus would never-"

"The important element is you. Alenko loves you, desires a version of you that just doesn't exist, but he no longer respects you. For Vakarian, his former teammate has committed the worst sin in this, and is unworthy of you. He is an odd turian, but his loyalty to you is absolute."

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she knew this already and leave it alone. Concealed beneath that, though, was a small voice, wicked in its innocent questioning, that prompted her to think of Garrus more and more. With these things spreading, threatening her perceptions, Shepard's mind trundled down the track that Thane had laid for her.

"You think it's more than loyalty."

"I do not pretend to understand this squad, Shepard. Not yet. But, if you could hear the way that I do it might be clearer. It is complex, but all the information is there. The most basic kind, at any rate."

She slid off the table onto heavy feet and once again Thane rose with her. They walked to the door and he gave her a little bow. Too self-consciously she listened for things she would never be able to pick up. And he smiled at her obvious effort.

"I hope you know, Commander, that I appreciate the opportunity to help you."

"Oh, tread carefully, Krios. Or you will find yourself with more opportunity than you know what to do with."

"No. I only meant stopping the Collectors. Though this evening was certainly a challenge of a different sort." He put his arms behind his back, "The cause is just. The end result is worthy and necessary. Such things are never endured in vain and it matters very little that Cerberus is involved."

She nodded, grateful again for his manner and his talent for the prettiest kind of candor.

"Good night. Sleep well." She said, and drifted out into the stillness of the ship's corridors.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things we did and didn't say.

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Solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt.

 _Where they make a desert, they call it peace._

Tacitus

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Miranda leaned against a low wall overlooking the spectral beauty of Illium's skyline.

"We could learn something from asari ingenuity. This place is a cultural marvel."

Shepard let the woman admire the scenery and tried not to roll her eyes at every appreciative look that passed over Miranda's body in the Nos Astra exchange. It wasn't fair to judge her for it. Though the woman had never had a choice as to her looks and her abilities, what she chose to do with her assets was purely another matter. And Shepard happened to know that the brunette more than appreciated the effect she had on . . .pretty much everyone.

"Asari culture has as much of a sinister side as any advanced race." The Commander said, joining the dark-haired operative at the railing. "Maybe living that long eventually takes its toll. I've always wondered what that's like."

Somewhere behind the market walls, there was at least one asari who could have answered for her, and had once shown her a taste of that bitter longevity. Shepard laced her fingers together, watching the lights of traffic weave like fireflies into the waning, magenta light of Illium's sunset. On an evening not unlike this, during a stolen weekend together, Liara had woken from a nightmare and pressed herself against the sleeping Commander. When Shepard stirred, concerned, the asari had reluctantly opened her mind and shared what had always been her deepest regret. In a sorrowful, blinding instant, Shepard had a vision of herself as a dying creature, so frail with age that she was unrecognizable. Her mind's eye traced the crepe paper skin, mottled with brown spots, the milky stare, and the overwhelming brittleness of a human life at its end. Liara had shut down the vision before it could project more than that. But the briefest look into her world had been devastating for Shepard. To think of herself that way was not difficult. To think of how much pain it would bring Liara tore tears from her eyes almost instantly.

She blinked against the memory of them holding each other afterwards. Two weeks after that, Shepard had bypassed their combined fear of this altogether and suffocated in space as the Normandy plummeted like a dying bird onto Alchera. Now the question of her life with Liara seemed displaced. Shepard felt like she stood outside of this second chance, observing it from some spirit realm. Her brain began to argue that, after two years, Liara deserved better than this limbo. They both did. Beside her, Miranda broke the protracted silence.

"Though it's not technically the same as living for centuries upon centuries, you've lived two lives, Shepard. That is a pretty unique experience. I'd say that puts you ahead of most of us. Well, maybe not me. I plan to be around long after you're gone"

Shepard smirked at her. Miranda identified with precision, grace, and power. There were worse things to aspire to, the Commander supposed, but her confidence in her body did not grant the Cerberus operative any more insight as to her place in the world than anyone else. This was a secret that Miranda had shared with no one but Shepard. The beautiful biotic suddenly reached out and caught Shepard's white streak of hair between two perfect fingers. "I wish you'd color this. There is a shop on the upper levels with a kit you can bring home if you don't want a professional to do it."

"I had a professional. And look what happened."

"Okay, you win. I'll leave it alone." Miranda dropped her hand, and Garrus approached. The turian handed Shepard a credit chit, and she tucked it in her belt.

"Upgrades purchased. They'll be transferred to the Normandy shortly." He scratched the unscarred side of his face and looked around the marketplace. Blue eyes assessed the foot traffic and the shops. "You know, it's got a better decorator and better class of reprobates, but Illium's no safer than Omega."

Shepard shrugged, stretching her shoulder. They had frittered away an hour already doing anything but what they needed to do. What the squad needed was to find the justicar. What Shepard needed was to sack-up and go see Liara. From their position in the market, she could see the staircase to the information broker's office.

Her audible sigh elicited a groan from Garrus.

"What do you want to do?" He said finally, gesturing at the two exits. "Liara or the justicar." After a second, Shepard made a choked sound and looked away, color rising. Miranda hid her mischievous smile behind a black-gloved hand. Garrus looked at them and then shook his head, fringe waving. But Shepard gave him a sad little smile and chucked him on the arm.

"Go with what you know," she said. "Let's see what Liara's up to, shall we?"

They moved along, two armored figures and a brunette in a skin-tight outfit threading through the Nos Astra market. Then, they climbed the stairs to the broker's office suite. Too many moments flooded the Commander's brain. Processing them as a nervous reaction led Shepard to simply shove them from her mind. One deep breath after another did nothing for her. Annoyed, she focused on the steps her feet took and allowed a single memory to alight in her mind: Liara, curled up on the couch with a relic, magnifier strapped to her head, turning the piece over slowly as she studied every crevice. Then, brilliant blue eyes snapped up to meet golden ones, and her freckled face split into a dazzling grin.

Shepard's nerves rippled, and her heart seemed to echo that sensation. She was almost grateful for the interruption of Nyxeris, the assistant, waiting at the top of the stairs. After an introduction and a series of words that the Commander would never be able recall if her life depended upon it, the door opened, and she slid inside the office of Illium's information broker.

Liara stood before a holo-screen. Her back was to Shepard, but the Commander saw so much confidence, and so much burden, in the asari's lithe carriage that she barely heard Liara threaten the man on the screen. She barely heard her own footsteps as they carried her closer. She barely cared that there were three other people in the room. Liara turned, hearing the soft rush of Shepard's breath, and said something . . .

But the Commander had already reached for her, possessive but tender, and pulled her too close, kissed her too fully, to finish any thought. As ever, the asari gave Shepard the lead and followed with her own beguiling enthusiasm. A heavy, brilliant pulling worked itself from low in the Commander's core. Lovely hands, blue and speckled as a robin's egg, plunged into Shepard's hair. There they tugged and trembled until the kiss could be broken and the other eyes in the room were finally remembered. Liara hid her face behind the pale cadmium screen of her lover's hair and sighed her tremulous welcome against Shepard's neck, seeming to revel in the shudder it provoked. They separated, and Liara moved aside. Shepard felt as if stilts had been kicked out from beneath her.

"Nyxeris, h-hold my calls, please."

When Shepard turned, she found Liara leaning heavily on her desk, gazing at Garrus and Miranda as the assistant hurried out of the room. And Garrus and Miranda were staring at Shepard. She wet her lips, and tasted Liara all over again.

"Liara, I'd like you to meet Miranda Lawson. She's an operative with Cerberus."

As Miranda stepped forward to take Liara's hand a look passed between them. It was fleeting, disguised as mutual respect, perhaps. But Shepard watched the way Liara looked back at her with great interest. Then there was Garrus. The turian made himself conspicuously still, refusing to take a step any further into the office. He simply nodded at Liara and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. As her old squad mates stared at each other, Shepard felt a tingle of dread crawl up her spine.

"Garrus, it's good to see you."

"Liara. How've you been?"

Still, he did not move from the wall, only pulled his mandibles tight to his jaw. When the asari did not move forward either, gold eyes narrowed at them both. Few sensations in the whole of existence rivaled the one in which a person knows they are being kept in the dark. That feeling, Shepard thought, was among the things she hated most. Liara wavered, seeming unable to decide if she should move to Shepard, or to Garrus, or to retreat behind her desk. They all watched her settle on simply standing, rigid, in the middle of the room.

"Things are . . .good. Complicated but good."

"Complicated. Is that what they're calling it these days?" The texture of his voice bristled like a spiny sea-creature. It was vulnerable, but it warned of pain. He gestured at the expansive office. "This is quite a set-up."

Shepard shot him a withering look as Liara dipped her head turned toward the desk. But, Garrus held the Commander's gaze with something so like resentment that her eyebrows drew together in concern. Behind her, Liara touched her shoulder and Shepard abandoned the hard, frustrated look from the turian in favor of a sweeter look and a kinder voice.

"I heard so many rumors that I couldn't believe. My sources, the good ones, told me you were alive and it felt like too much to hope for."

Liara sat against the edge of her desk, appearing to need its solidity. At least the kiss had affected her as well, Shepard thought, smiling inwardly. But this familiar feeling, like a warm place in the sun on a chilly day, dissipated as they looked at one another. She drifted toward the desk, her boots inching up next to the hem of Liara's dress. Though she wanted to take a blue hand in hers, she resisted.

"I have to say, it's so strange to see you in this job. All cloak-and-dagger with contacts, and sources, and information drops."

"It's paid my bills for the last two years. Since the crash . . . since you. I don't have that many marketable skills."

A vision of Liara, applying for various jobs all over Illium, skittered across Shepard's mind: bartender, taxi driver . . .cook. She chuckled, biting her lip when the asari smiled self-consciously. Liara gave a small sigh and crossed her arms. She looked around Shepard, likely finding Garrus still grinding his mandibles by the door. But the Commander was determined not to give this moment to the turian. That wasn't why she came here. What other subjects could they drag out before their conversation eventually steered them into unsafe waters? Perhaps it was better to take a cue from the wide-eyed scientist that she rescued from Therum. Perhaps the best tack was the uncomfortably honest one.

"I'm sorry. I should have come sooner."

Liara swallowed and looked down, past her folded arms. Then she stood up, not looking at Shepard but past her.

"Would it be alright if I asked you to give us a few minutes alone?"

Miranda looked to her Commander and waited. Shepard nodded, watching her go, but the agitated sniper did not move. Garrus held his stance and gave Shepard no indication that he intended to leave them alone. Fed up with whatever secret war he was playing at, gold eyes seared him and she hoped the appropriate amount of anger was telegraphed. She heard Liara shift behind her as Garrus continued to brood.

"Garrus."

Shepard's voice was louder than necessary, but he relented. As he ducked out, she threw a questioning look to him . . .which he answered with a defeated shake of his head. She watched the closing door and wondered what, in two years, had happened to all the people she cared about. First Kaidan, now this business between Garrus and Liara. If dying hadn't already ignited a flame of guilt inside her, it certainly flared to life now.

When she turned back to Liara, the information broker was rubbing her upper arms. Shepard thought she looked too thin. The normal, vivacious quality in her blue eyes replaced with something harrowed. Peachy hands, dimly lit with lacework scars, covered Liara's as they stilled on her arms.

"I mean it. As soon as they woke me up I should have come."

"Please don't say that. I owe you an explanation."

"For what?"

As Liara struggled with the next few words, Shepard felt as if she might be smothering the woman. But, as much as she tried, she couldn't' remove her hands or give Liara the space she seemed to need.

"Your mission to stop the Collectors. Cerberus told you that's why they brought you back. But what did they tell you about how they found you? How they got your body?"

Of all the things they might have discussed, this had not occurred to Shepard. In all the scenarios she had practiced, Liara knowing more about Cerberus than she herself had never come up. She dropped her hands and Liara stood. They were still too close, but also too mournful for any comfort to come of it.

Her body? In truth, Shepard had not given that particular detail much thought. Her body would have come down with the rest of the Normandy on the ice-planet. She flashed briefly to the moments before the ship had broken in half, when she had sent Liara off with the rest of the crew. It was mechanical, necessary, her brain's reaction to training and adrenaline. And part of her had known they would never see each other again. Certainly no part of her expected to be discussing it after the fact, at any rate.

"I don't know. Come to think of it, I never asked. I just assumed they scooped me up off Alchera."

"Your body was stolen, Shepard."

The Commander sat down. It was only luck that the chair happened to be there.

"Stolen how? By whom?"

"Agents of the Shadow Broker." Liara sat in the chair beside her and pulled it close. "They descended on the Normandy crash site and found you before the Alliance even had a chance to respond."

"What on Earth would the Shadow Broker want with my corpse?" No reasonable explanation presented itself to Shepard's blank mind. She looked at Liara and was stunned by the pain she found in the delicate, blue face.

"He was going to sell it to the Collectors. No one knows what they planned to do with your body. I spent a month looking for you after the crash and during that time I was . . .approached."

Shepard realized she was numb. And how awkward it was to feel this non-feeling so acutely. "Miranda. Miranda and the Illusive Man sent you after me." No tears, no sharp pangs of anger or sadness. The cause is just. The end result is worthy . . .it matters very little . . .Liara had done what anyone would have. She came to this conclusion before the asari would have to explain it. But, Shepard listened anyway, feeling that she owed her friend, her lover, the chance to unburden herself.

"It wasn't an easy decision. And we . . .I nearly died trying to get you back. Cerberus offered a chance to resurrect you and in the end nothing else mattered. But how could I tell you? I know what kind of people they are, that they would use you, and I handed you over anyway. If you were angry when you came back, if you never wanted to see me again, it would have been all that I deserved."

Her voice broke finally, and Shepard took her hand. It felt like bird, poised to fly away if startled. She pushed forward in her seat, bringing her knees against Liara's.

"There's nothing to be angry about. They brought me back. There's a job to do. Come with me. Be with me."

"You don't understand. I messed up so badly. The whole mission to retrieve your body was one bad choice after another. And you weren't there to pull me out. We would have been killed by mercs if not for some . . .agent . . ." At this, Liara glanced briefly to the office door. "Someone I never even saw. And, at the end of it, if Feron hadn't . . ." She stood and put the chair between herself and Shepard, squeezing the back with nervous fingers. As she said the name, Liara crumbled a little. "I can't go with you. I need to find the Shadow Broker."

"Why? Because of a grudge? Because he hurt you? I don't accept that." Shepard launched out of her chair, surprising Liara, making her step back. "You had the strength to do this. To bring me back. You. Not Cerberus. What does going after the Shadow Broker prove?"

"I left someone behind! Someone who turned out to be a good friend. You would never leave someone like that. There's a chance that Feron is still alive. And, now I can save him." Cerulean cheeks glimmered with tear streaks. Liara pulled herself up, appearing to gather the will to believe in the next words she spoke. "I'm going to kill the Shadow Broker for conspiring with the Collectors, and for what he did to you, and to Feron."

The sound of Feron's name again on Liara's lips gave Shepard a strange ache. Whoever this person was, she cared for him. After two years, Shepard should have felt no right to her sudden jealousy. But, that feeling chilled her anyway, wrapped as it was in the soft syllables of the man's name. She took a step toward Liara, pushing the chair aside, and touched her face. This time, it was the information broker who pulled Shepard too close. It was the boldness of blue hands beneath her armor that made the Commander gasp. It was Liara who led the easy play of lips parting and tongues joining. Released from her guilt, the asari seemed more like the beautiful creature that had pulled the nightmares from Shepard's head and helped her see joyful things when she closed her eyes. But Shepard realized that this Liara, though she felt so familiar, smelled and tasted as real as anything, was not entirely hers. A certain hardness encased her, disconnecting her from Shepard and transforming her into a being focused only by grief and rage. This, the Commander could tell by the quality of her passion. What she had been through, alone and unbound to the Normandy or her place there, had changed Liara. And for the second time since her confrontation with Kaidan on Horizon, Shepard felt as if, in death, she had ruined a whole person all by herself.

"Then I'll join you. Whatever you need, whenever you need me, for as long as it takes."

"Thank you."

Taking in the hope and the poorly concealed anxiety in Liara's face, Shepard found herself unable to respond. Too much had gone wrong for the asari, and it colored every moment between them. Remembering to think of something outside the circle of arms, outside the office, outside the city, Shepard pulled away and went to the door. Liara followed.

"I will send you a message as soon as I know more. I'm close."

They nodded at one another and the door slid open. Miranda sat on Nyxeris' desk, talking to the assistant. Garrus stood just outside the door, pacing in his distracted way. He caught Liara's eye as Shepard passed between them, and for a moment the asari looked as if she might ask him to step in her office next. The turian held her gaze and was the last to head down the stairs after Miranda and Shepard.

Liara watched him go, her blue eyes hanging on the sniper rifle strapped to his back as it disappeared in the marketplace crowd.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The X3M shot through Illium's nighttime traffic, dropping with gut-twisting speed into the lanes heading out of Nos Astra toward the commercial spaceport. Shepard gazed at Garrus as he kept his eyes on the steady stream of lights outside the small window. Across from her, Miranda's voice sketched a quick and cold argument for having kept Liara's involvement with Cerberus a secret. But the Commander continued to watch the sniper, his scarred face turned to the porthole against her penetrating stare. Whatever he harbored against Liara, whatever the reason for his mood, Shepard was certain that it had to do with her. Knowing, though, did not make his brooding any less infuriating. He glanced at her, finally. They held each other's attention in the dark cabin, purely by the weight of their shared, unuttered questions.

Garrus returned to the window and Shepard swung her wrath, like a mace in a wide arc, to Miranda.

"The most interesting thing to me is that you keep saying certain facts are on a need-to-know basis and yet when I look at the total lack of information I have from you it appears I don't need to know anything at all. Does that seem fair to you?"

"It wasn't my call. The Illusive Man preferred that you not be distracted by T'Soni's involvement."

"Distracted?" Shepard snorted and shoved herself backwards against the seat. "We can agree I've moved on from 'distracted' and pushed straight to 'livid.'" She planted a boot next to Miranda's knees for emphasis and the operative shifted away.

"Can you say it was the wrong decision? Look at how you're reacting. We knew she would be a problem."

The boot came off Miranda's seat and clomped to the cab floor. Shepard shook her head, tossing the memory of the asari's skin under her fingertips into the back of her stormy thoughts. There was only one reason for Cerberus to contact Liara now, and it had nothing to do with their relationship.

"It's a different story if say, for example, the Illusive Man wanted the Shadow Broker dead. Why, how convenient to suddenly throw Liara into my lap when she can be useful again! Suddenly there's no end to the information I get."

"The Shadow Broker is a threat. Liara's goal happens to coincide with ours. Commander, it's nothing personal."

Miranda shrugged in a way that made Shepard grit her teeth. There was a gentle woman in there, one that possessed compassion and reason. Hers had been the face, blurry and bright, that Shepard grappled for through the fog of death. If she could draw that person from this Miranda, this corporate copy, then she stood a chance of turning the tide in her favor. Soft as a child, she tried to appeal to that woman.

"No. I suppose not. Just business."

Shepard leaned forward in her seat and let her head drop heavily into her hands. In the dim light of the shuttle, her scars glowed, casting red webs of light on the hair that hung in her face. Looking at Miranda, arguing with her, made the Commander's head surge with doubt. Who did she command, really? These people who owed their allegiance to Cerberus? She had begun to think of the operative as a teammate, and a friend. Shepard's voice became dark as she spoke to the floor.

"When you think of Oriana. Is it personal?"

For the Commander, it was safer, easier, to keep looking at the floor as she continued. Whatever pain or anger Miranda concealed at the mention of her sister mattered little to Shepard.

"Do you imagine that because Cerberus resurrected me that I deserve to be handled, compartmentalized, and in every other way treated as if my life holds no significance?" Then she did look at the woman, whose firmly set jaw belied what Shepard hoped was her spark of humanity, "I'm asking you, Miranda, because I happen to know that you once felt as if someone owned you, body and soul. And that owning you entitled them to disregard your . . .personhood."

Miranda slumped against the bulkhead, stiff back bending to curve against the shadows of the cab. For a moment, her voice was stripped of its sensual armor and its haughtiness. Without those things, Shepard heard every ounce of the woman's uncertainty.

"You're not a slave."

"I know who I am."

Miranda was silent. Garrus peeked at them both as he slid his eyes from Illium's skyline to the seat across from him. The Cerberus operative leaned forward, her bowed head coming alongside Shepard's in the cramped cabin.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Me too. But, do me a favor?" The Commander's voice was a shadow brushing against Miranda's hair, her eyes golden scythes in the dark. "Don't defend Cerberus or the Illusive Man to me anymore. It makes you cheap."

The shuttle pulled up and they all swayed as it came to a less than graceful stop at the spaceport. The justicar, and whatever delights she had in store, lay somewhere beyond the police station. A soft hiss and bolt sound signaled the end of the ride and the shuttle door bounced up. Shepard pulled herself out, followed by Garrus, while Miranda sat dazed in the cramped cab. The two women eyed each other.

"Lawson. Let's go."

"Of course, commander."


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scratch the itch that won't go away.

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Esse quam videri.

 _To be rather than to seem._

Cicero

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Lynn Chakwas knew that many people considered Shepard incredibly lucky. With good reason, she supposed. But, the doctor thought she was almost the opposite, in fact. Whatever small, good thing happened to her always carried a painful consequence. And it made her like the woman all the more. Because no matter the circumstance, Shepard put the well being of others before her own and kept any self-pity she might feel entirely to herself.

They had survived too much together, each in their own way, forged in fire, so to speak. In the case of the Skyllian Blitz, Chakwas decided that luck, good or bad, had little to do with how Shepard became who she was. The doctor had seen that metamorphosis first-hand.

So, the appearance of the inordinately expensive med-bay upgrade surprised the doctor. Though she had been the one to suggest it, in the event that Shepard woke up from death haunted by her scars, Lynn never imagined that the Commander would actually go through with it. So sure was she, that when it was delivered and installed during their stay on Illium, Chakwas called Shepard to the med-bay.

The two women stood side-by-side examining the device. The doctor scowling down at it while Shepard raised a hand to scratch her head. The effect was so simian that Lynn burst into a fit of hearty chuckling. Shepard giggled, too and addressed the AI with total incredulity.

"I really have no idea where it came from. I promise you I didn't order it. EDI? Can you shed some light on this mystery?"

"I'm sorry, Commander, there are extensive files on the use, care and maintenance of the machine, but the shipping order contains no point of origin."

"Is it rigged? Will it spy on us, or detonate, or anything hinky like that?"

"No, it is not . . .hinky."

"Well, I'm stymied."

Chakwas ran a hand over the armature and looked back at Shepard, her kind voice dipping into a sly register.

"You know, most secret admirers send flowers or candy," she said. "Not a subtle suggestion that you are hideous." They laughed again.

"Commander, you are anything but hideous."

Shepard turned to find Yeoman Chambers, hands clasped in front of her, standing just inside the doorway. "In fact, many cultures that use individualistic markings - both ornamental and spiritual - would find your scars quite beautiful."

"Thank you, Kelly. Is there something you need?"

"Garrus would like to speak with you."

She nodded at the petite officer and bid Chakwas farewell. Passing through the mess hall, Shepard reminded herself to go in search of provisions for Gardner. They would be heading back to the Citadel before long, and with the ever-expanding group she had taken under her care the poor meal quality was starting weigh as heavily on her conscience as it did on her stomach.

Her booted feet took her quickly down the corridor to the main battery. But as she approached, the door opened, and the turian came out. They nearly collided. Shepard stepped back to look at him, hands braced on his gauntlets.

"Whoa. Where's the fire?"

He looked down at her fingers then his head swiveled around the pod-bay corridor, which made her smile.

"There's no fire. What's up?"

"Uh, come in here. I've got something and I want to run it by you."

"What have you got?"

"A lead. A good one."

She watched the beginnings of an epic mandible tremor work its way across his jaw. They ducked back inside the small room and Garrus took a datapad off his bunk. Talons clicked on the device as he brought it to her, and Shepard listened for those hidden sounds. But, she found only the hard reverberation of venom in his voice.

"Me and my team on Omega, we were betrayed by one of our own. Sidonis."

"I remember. He orchestrated a diversion. Something to get you away, right?"

Garrus nodded, looking down at the datapad. He scratched at his bandages and hesitated before handing the device to Shepard. Her heart surged for him. His voice, his restless preoccupation with the scars left by Omega, only heightened the anger slithering up from her darker places. This betrayal could not be repaired, but she read the datapad and understood that it could be revenged.

"He gave the mercs everything they needed. Our location, our weaknesses. My team did what they could, but they never stood a chance."

As he spoke, her mind raced along blood-caked corridors, dank with stale air and the rot of mercenary flesh left behind, unclaimed. That's where he had stayed, buried and fighting among that muck. In her hands was the only link to the person who had put her friend in that position, condemning him to be swarmed upon by filth. Her eyes roamed the messages and then snapped up to meet Garrus'.

"Son of a bitch." He nodded at her rising ire, and she returned the glimmer of hate sparking behind that visor. She smacked the datapad against her open palm. "Then let's go find this . . .Fade. Is he a merc?"

"He's a forger, works with the Blue Suns. And his specialty is helping people disappear." Garrus took the device back from Shepard, tossing it on his console, and paced the short distance between her and his bunk. "He's been seen with Sidonis."

"So, what's your plan? Sidonis must know you survived, that you're looking for him."

"An eye for an eye, Shepard. Isn't that what humans say? An eye for an eye, a life for a life. Sidonis owes me ten. I plan to collect."

He stopped pacing when she didn't respond and came to stand in front of her, close enough that Shepard thought she could hear the sounds coming from him that she shouldn't be able to. Taking in the tall figure before her, she felt as if she had never seen him before. The subtle flex of his mandibles, the clarity and deadly chill of his eyes, even half-hidden with the ever-present visor. The quality of his closeness, his physical presence, all verged on "new." Taken together he was still Garrus, but grown in a different direction somehow. She felt a cold shudder inch along under her skin, raising gooseflesh.

It should have surprised her, how quickly the instinct for blood was teased out from its hiding place in her new life. But, Shepard's eyes lit on the turian's hands, recalling their deadly capabilities, and feared that where Garrus was concerned this would always be the case. She swallowed, attempting to reign in the galloping rage of her old self. Beneath his cool scrutiny, and the pointed exhalation as he waited for her reply, she forbade her feet to shuffle. Shepard gave him a stern lift of her chin.

"You're sure that's what you want?"

"Does asking for your help mean we have to agree? Because, I'm not going to change my mind."

"No. I'll do whatever you need me to do. But helping you means I get to ask questions without you jumping down my throat."

Sharp, blue eyes widened in annoyance, but she held still. If Garrus wanted his way, it was in his best interest to at least pretend to be rational.

"I wasn't-" he stopped and Shepard watched his talons clench. Garrus nodded and took a half step back from her. "Of course."

"So, we're going to get Fade to produce Sidonis?"

"I've arranged a meeting with Fade, yeah. We're headed to the Citadel. He'll meet us in the warehouse on Zakeera Ward."

She nodded. There wasn't much more to say. But, every time she came to this room she seemed unable to leave when she ought to. Something in that newness of his prompted the reappearance of her littlest voice, the one so persistent that it begged for her attention at every thought of Garrus.

"Thank you," she said, finally.

"Shepard, I think that's my line."

"Not this time." She closed the gap he had created. Though she was tall, Garrus still hovered slightly above her. Shepard denied that little voice inside, pummeling her mental fists against its insistence that there were only a few, painfully few, reasons to leave so little room between two people. And wouldn't she like to explore one or two? When she couldn't conjure the bravery to satisfy that question with its obvious physical intention, the Commander instead placed her hand on the front of his armor. It lingered there, over the left region of his chest, and the two of them blinked down at it together, both seeming to struggle with its foreign nature.

At last, Shepard tapped her palm against his armor and looked away, anywhere but at the quizzical turian expression looming so close to her own.

"I appreciate you letting me help you. It means a lot." She said, hoping the simple gesture, the little words, conveyed some part of her devotion to him. This mission would usher him down a dismal path, one she knew well. That he still trusted her to guide him made her feel important as more than just his superior. His fringed head cocked to the side, trying to capture her eyes again.

"You're welcome. " he replied and scratched again at the edges of his bandaged face. "That sounds odd. But, I could get used to that."

She strained her ears, cursing Thane for putting the thought in her head. Maybe she was kidding herself that those frequencies might reveal themselves to her, but Shepard found that she desperately wanted to know what sound Garrus made when she stood too close. What sound was provoked when she had, perhaps unwisely, left her awkward gesture sitting too long in the open? What minor pitch changed in him when she smiled?

Which she did with all the false ease of a lion tamer, chair destroyed and whip lost to the dusty ring, waiting to be devoured. There would be another time, she hoped, when she could happily comply with whatever her little voice wanted with Garrus. But, with revenge on his mind, her desire to protect him and offer her strength outweighed everything else. And, at the moment he was still standing toe-to-toe with her, expression uniquely unguarded for a turian, looking for some sign in her face that she would protest this mission.

"Shepard?"

"Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

He didn't have to know there was anything more to her silence than that. Shepard sighed at her cowardice, gave him a nod, and left the main battery.

Garrus could blame his insomnia on the bunk made for humans. Or he could admit that his nerves were frayed. Sitting up, he pulled his twisted shirt over his head and flung it across the room. He had certainly suffered his share of sleepless nights before other missions, but this had a far different feel. Because unlike those that came before, this mission was purely his. The target, the plan, the outcome . . .all rested squarely on his shoulders. On Omega he led a team, but their strategies had been a group effort and their goals had been something outside the team. Tomorrow would be a very real 'first' for Garrus. For a brief, shining moment everything they did would be because of him and it would not go wrong. Rubbing his eyes, he asked himself if he was convinced by all that internal bravado.

As he considered the possible outcomes, calculating the odds of their success, Garrus thought of Liara and Shepard. Since settling in on the Normandy he had wondered when T'Soni would make an appearance. When days stretched into weeks and Shepard avoided any discussion of her . . .well, the former C-Sec officer didn't need a roadmap to point him to that wreckage. Before Shepard had finally sought her out in Nos Astra, Garrus considered writing to Liara. The last time he had seen her was through his scope, surrounded by mercs. And of course, she had not seen him.

His reaction on Illium had not gone unnoticed, and he'd had a bitch of a time avoiding Shepard's whole line of questioning with regards to the asari. Before he had stepped in the room, Garrus was positive that he would simply come out and tell them both that he'd been involved in helping Liara and Feron. But, then Shepard had kissed her. Everything beyond that was cloaked in red for the turian. His mind had prowled around the words and finally stifled them. So, he had spent the rest of the time in Liara's office vacillating between guilt and some unknowable, gut rage.

What he might say to her, or ask Liara he wasn't sure, but he wanted to come out from under the darkness cast by Shepard's death and resurrection. The asari was the only person he could approach. Where their Commander was concerned, especially since Kaidan's disloyalty left him so enraged, he struggled with an insatiable desire for more of . . .anything . . .having to do with Shepard. At one time he could have simply asked the Commander whatever he liked and she would tell him to go to hell or blithely open up new chapters of herself for him. Now, though, he worried that asking her too much might expose him somehow, make him appear needy or obsessed. Obsessed was the right word for it, however.

So he had started several letters to his asari squad mate, but held himself back, waiting for Shepard to acknowledge what she intended to do about Liara. He only wanted to save the Commander another scene, another heartbreak, like the one she'd stepped in on Horizon. Then the kiss. Garrus squeezed his eyes shut, turning over in the ill-fitting bed again, willing the memory of Liara's hands on Shepard to dissolve from his brain altogether. In his chest a warning sound came, unbidden, from the disused well of jealousy he'd never known was there. For what? For his Commander, or for the easy way she had forgiven the asari for lying? What should have made him glad, seeing some form of reconciliation between them, in reality left him cold.

He would eventually come under Shepard's anger, Garrus thought, not for the part he had played in helping Liara retrieve her body, but for keeping it a secret. Shepard would forgive him if he simply told her. But, she would likely disavow him altogether if he let her find out the way Miranda and Liara had. That was a shame he did not think he could endure.

Replaying the startling kiss, and Shepard's denouncement of Miranda in the shuttle brought him no closer to sleep.

There were painkillers left over from his facial reconstruction. His crested head swiveled to look at the nightstand. If sleep would not come willingly he could always help it along. He overturned the bottle and teased out a single pill on the tabletop. Then, he cut it in half with the side of his talon. He swept the remaining pills, and one half, back into the bottle and capped it. With a flick, he tossed the half dose into his throat and swallowed.

He pushed aside his blanket, yanking it away from his leg spurs, and stood up. The main battery wasn't a terrible place to sleep, noisier than traditional quarters, but a hell of a lot more private. Garrus was just happy to have a door he could close. He stretched and popped his joints. He scratched the soft hide at the back of his head. Waiting for the tiny little pill fragment to take effect proved to be maddening. He activated the main battery's console and started to work on the guns. His eyes focused on the charts before him, brain mechanically drilling figures into their slots, testing outcomes on the side. Before long he felt positively droopy and lumbered back to bed. The turian fell asleep within minutes, flopped over on his side with a long, plated arm thrown over his face.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  
From across the drowsy, white blur of his pillow, Garrus thought he saw Shepard sitting with him. More than that, he thought he could feel the weight of her arm on the mattress, her small, warm hand inches away from his. Her head leaned back against the wall beside his bunk, knees drawn up, gold eyes fixed on some distant point. So close, Garrus watched the gentle drop of her head as it turned to the bed, lower lip disappearing beneath the pull of her teeth. But she didn't look at his face. Russet lashes swept downward, pointing at the faint, dormant crackle of her scars. She was watching her own hand next to his on the sea of tossed sheets. He could not be sure he wasn't dreaming. The pill had not left him in a fog, exactly, but Shepard seemed a little too shimmery to be real.

In which case, the quality of his dreams had certainly taken an unusual turn, he thought.

But the prickling post-numbness in his trapped arm told him he was awake. And that Shepard was actually sitting there on the floor next to his bunk gazing, not at some daydream, but at his visor, running a finger over the names carved inside. Through slitted eyelids, he watched her, not ready to give himself away. She wore a plain white t-shirt and her hair was pulled into a ponytail high at the back of her head. A style she rarely wore and so had never struck Garrus as peculiar until now . . .because, especially with the white stripe cutting through the pale red mass, it reminded him of turian fringe.

"Are you awake?"

"I am now." He said and pushed himself upright, bunk creaking. Shepard watched him execute an expansive yawn, bluish tongue darting out for a moment. Then he shivered, chest and shoulder plates twitching over his hide. He blinked at her as she continued to stare at him, still holding his visor.

"Never seen them do that before."

"What?"

"Your plates." More to the point, he was pretty sure she had never actually seen him before. He watched her expression falter and her amber eyes roamed the small space for something less naked to look at. The tingling in his arm subsided and he stretched it across his chest.

"What time is it?"

"Early. I got up early to do some scanning before we dock. EDI said the battery console was up and running calibrations, so I thought you were awake. Guess you left it on." Her eyes left his torso and went back to the visor. Part of him had a need to snatch it from her hands. If anyone else had crept into his room and handled his things Garrus might be tempted to introduce them to his rifle. But she was everywhere, lately, and he could no more remove her from his quarters than he could his brain. The way she traced her nails over the engraving on the visor gave him a dull sense of panic.

"You scratched his name off." Her voice was quiet and blunted, as if she herself were dreaming, "It's like he's worse than dead. In some place beyond that."

Her fingers rubbed the rough part where Sidonis' name had been. Hope had made him believe she would simply accompany him today, help him kill Sidonis, and leave it alone. But Shepard thrived on turning everything on end. The urge came back, stronger than before, to wrench the visor from her hands.

"Did you use a knife, or your talon?"

"To scratch it off? Talon. I burned it, too."

As Garrus watched, concerned for what her judgment might provoke in him, Shepard seemed to shake herself out of her reverie. She held the visor out to him and he took it slowly, eyeing her. "It's interesting. I discovered something about myself today. The scratched-out bit reminded me."

"Does it involve letting me get up and get dressed?"

"Not at all. Look what I can do." She ignored his exasperated tone and scooted closer to the side table. Pushing aside all of his piled junk, she made a small open space on the hard, metal surface. She waggled her hands like a magician proving there was nothing up her sleeve. Then, she touched her thumbnail to the tabletop and scraped. Garrus winced at the immediate, tooth-tingling screech that she produced. He looked closer and realized that Shepard had gouged a mark in the table. Among the myriad casual scrapes and scratches his talons had made over the last few weeks, she had left a deep mark of her own.

"Someone's been taking her vitamins."

"It's this body. Heavy bone weave, heavy skin weave, gene tweaking. I'm all . . ." she gestured at herself, "indestructible. Well, no not really. But I'm healing so quick. And my nails are so hard. I hadn't noticed it until now. I guess things have been moving too fast to take stock." As she spoke, her animated tone wound down until she was once again lost in a dreamy state. She stared at the scratch on the table for a minute. When the comfort of their silence waned, Garrus spoke.

"Hey, that's really . . .great. Weird, but great."

"Yeah?"

He nodded, staring at her hands with something between hunger and humor. An idea formed, born of a sudden need to move past the territory of an impending disagreement . . .but also because he could think of nothing else since watching her scrape the table. He would have pushed it aside, but it lunged from his mouth before he could think twice.

"Can I ask you to do something for me?"

"Sure."

"Scratch my back."

She leaned forward and shoved him, but her eyes reclaimed their usual mirth. He thrilled at it. Anything but that distant look.

"You're making fun of me."

"That doesn't sound like something I would do," he said. She gathered her legs underneath her and stood up. But he persisted, holding out his hands in a pleading gesture. Demonstrating how much this was necessary, he flailed his arms.

"I'm not kidding, Shepard. Does it look like I'm capable of reaching the middle of my own back?"

Hands on her hips, she cocked her head and looked down at him. As her eyes roamed the broad curve of his back, Garrus felt a twinge of regret for having brought this on. But, she didn't seem to abhor the idea of touching him. Almost to the other extreme, Shepard gave his upper body such thoughtful attention that Garrus tensed his mandibles to keep from covering himself with the sheets or blurting out that she should probably just forget it. Finally she nodded, ponytail swinging over one shoulder.

"Weird, but okay. I'll take pity." She said, and he scooted forward down the length of his bunk so she could kneel behind him. "It never occurred to me. The whole itchy back problem. And, really, who else on the ship could you ask? Who has claws? Grunt?"

Garrus snorted, and kept himself still at her first tentative touches. Starting at the shoulders, she worked around the upper curve of his collar, where it was mostly skin and fewer plates, down to the middle of his back. He expected it to be a relief. But it was so much more. It was delicious. Being touched was a basic thing, and Garrus had not anticipated how much losing all his compatriots on Omega would affect this part of his life. After they were killed there were no more slaps on the back, no more sparring, no comforting hands drifting over old wounds. Gone were all of the million little ways in which they touched each other. With Shepard's fingers on him, the feeling returned, sweet and strong. It was like home. A sound like an electrical hum built in his chest and reverberated straight through his back. If she felt it, he thought, the hum did not bother her. Then he sighed into it, relaxing and then writhing when she hit a good spot. Her nails, tiny, hard things that they were, found all the little spaces between his plates he could never scratch himself. The pads of her fingers massaged his hide where any expanse of muscle was evident. Without worrying that she might hurt him, perhaps encouraged by the pitch of the subconscious sound, she dug her fingernails as deep as she could manage, swirling them lower and then branching out to each side occasionally. As she did, Garrus allowed the great pleasure of it to overtake him and he grumbled appreciatively.

Whatever natural, physical response was unlocked during her ministrations, Garrus was too distracted to notice at first. But as her touch warmed him, the scratching tapping into more intimate memories, he shifted on the bunk and tried not to look down. But Shepard was lost in her task, and he was grateful that sheets and blankets obscured him below the waist. He was about to open his mouth, suggest that she'd done enough and thank her so he could get her out of the room, but the Commander, as always, turned him inside out.

"I think that should do the trick, right?" Her voice was merry behind him.

She ran two ultra-hard nails straight up the middle of his back, along either side of the protective spinal ridge. And, as quickly as she did it, two things happened. The soothing sound in his chest stopped. And every plate on his upper body shifted as his hide gave an impressive, involuntary shudder.

She hopped of the bunk and gave him some space, eyes huge with amusement and shock. He gave his head a hard shake, fringe bouncing, and looked up at her. Human lips, with their unique plushness, curved into a tantalizing grin. Garrus fluttered his mandibles slightly, unable to stem the heat rising in his face. Several hard breaths later he came back to himself, hoping he hadn't scared her. But she was still smiling.

"Good?" She waggled her fingers again, hopeful.

"Would it be odd to ask you to never cut your nails?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so." Still, he let himself hope that she would at least be tempted to leave them long enough to come in handy. The seal was broken, so to speak, and if he could ask her for a back scratch on occasion then he couldn't regret this little moment. He rolled his shoulders and looked around the small room. "Anything else, or can I get ready? Big day, you know."

"Of course, I'm so sorry!" She nodded with such vigor that her pale, rose-gold ponytail bounced. "We'll be docking in about two hours."

The Commander strode from his makeshift quarters and once again Garrus was left to figure things out on his own. He looked down at his lap, blessedly shielded by the bed sheets. New things had come to light. His body's reaction shouldn't have been a surprise. A back-scratch. What a luxury! One he never expected to miss so dearly. Rolling his shoulders again, still feeling the satisfied twitch of his hide, he wondered what had possessed him to ask. Then he decided that he didn't care. It had been wonderful and she hadn't made him feel awkward in the slightest . . .for the most part. He dropped a rough palm to his lap. Even that was fading. He hauled himself out of bed and stretched.

When he pulled the footlocker out from beneath his bunk, Garrus noticed his visor tangled in the sheets. He plucked it out and regarded the names inside, even the ugly scar over what had been Sidonis. Shepard did not approve, that much was clear. He slid the visor on and continued his morning preparations. As he dressed, pulling and buckling one piece of armor into or over the next, Garrus flashed to his youth. As a kid, just entering the service, he had been placed with a small cadre of other young turians and sent out into the wilderness with little food and only rudimentary weapons, the supposition being that this would determine who among the incoming class carried the greatest potential for leadership . . .and who would always be a subordinate. He closed his eyes.

The first night, all the cadets were silent. They buffeted their tears with pride and the ambition for rank that all turians sought. But this was learned behavior. A theater of braggadocio borrowed from their parents and older siblings. The reality was that they were scared children, alone in the Palaven wilderness with only each other to rely upon. Garrus had approached a taller boy, one he deemed to be the strongest, and suggested they make a scouting trip at night to find another group of cadets. The other boy, Masavis, hadn't even considered there would be other groups. His eyes lit up and they agreed, sneaking out while the others were asleep. As Garrus suspected, they came upon a similar group of cowering youths several clicks from their camp. Masavis argued with him about their strategy. In the end, the stronger boy convinced Garrus that taking the food and weapons was what their patrons wanted them to do to prove their worthiness. But, it was Garrus who convinced Masavis that the aim should be stealth, above all, and no harm should come to the other cadets. And so it had been Garrus who stole into the camp undetected and relieved them of their supplies.

The long walk back to their own small group gave the young turian a chance to consider if what they had done was wrong. He decided that the other group would benefit from the extra challenge this thievery had provoked and that the mission had been necessary. And he realized that while he may not have been the tallest and strongest, he excelled in collaboration. While he may not have been designated a leader in the traditional turian sense . . .he felt like an equal partner.

His tedious ritual of armor completed, Garrus reached for his rifle case and popped it open. Looking at the Viper, he thought of Shepard and her love of the damned Widow. He didn't care for its sluggishness, but the Commander seemed to appreciate the extra time and effort it demanded of her. And she liked the boom. He pulled the rifle out. Though they never fought on important matters, there were things Shepard and Garrus disagreed on. He had learned much from her, but she always treated him like a collaborator as much as a soldier under her command. But Garrus sensed that today would likely change that. The question of how to deal with her inevitable interference ignited a seething sort of guilt in him. Borrowing a thread of thought from their recent experience with Miranda, he hoped she would see that owing her his life did not entitle her to run his mission, or his conscience, as she saw fit.

He hoped that she might keep her reservations, her judgments, to herself, just this once because there was no other course of action in his mind. Nothing felt more right than bringing death to Sidonis. If Shepard disagreed, so be it. Her record was far from pristine. Still, Garrus wondered what she would have done if it had been her team betrayed and slaughtered. Two years ago he might have been able to say with confidence. Now, she cared about actually being just, not simply tucking the word around herself like a cloak. And it was too like his own goal, the miserable failure of his attempts on Omega, for Garrus to consider further.

He and Masavis had been the best of their class, first and second as they completed one trial after another. They rose in ranks together. But Masavis moved on, leaving Palaven for an outer colony, and Garrus struggled to ally himself with a new leader. When he eventually found one, so far exceeding any right or expectation he had . . .she died. Left him behind with no collaborator, no road map. After the Normandy crash, he regarded himself as a sketch of a being. With Shepard gone, he had looked back on his achievements and felt that, at least in memory of her, he might take the mantle of leader with some confidence. So, Omega filled in the blanks . . .until it all went to hell. When Shepard returned to him she embraced the full picture, failures and all.

Knowing Shepard cared for him, whether he resembled her personal acolyte or a hardened mercenary, made the bitter work of killing Sidonis seem beneath him. In all likelihood that's how she would have interpreted it, anyway. Again, he tightened at the thought of her taking control of his mission. Garrus removed his visor and looked at the ten names, side by side with their conspicuous, scarred brother. Perhaps a true leader would think it was beneath him. But, there were ten men in the ground. And what was beneath that?


	6. 6

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Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.

_Be patient and tough; some day this pain will be useful to you._

Ovid

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"Why did it have to be YMIRs?" Shepard gave an exasperated grunt as she backpedaled to the safety of the raised platform behind her. Garrus moved to the platform on the left as a storm of bullets rained down on them from the two approaching mechs. Tali ripped through a good portion of their shields before joining Shepard behind a stack of crates high on the right. In their experience, the huge YMIRs didn't exactly flinch when fired upon. No, mostly they just kept coming. Garrus opened fire, drawing the mech on the left.

"I have an idea," she called to the quarian, voice nearly drowned in the machine-gun rattatat filling the cargo bay. "Either this makes it a short fight, or we fall back." Tali's mask tilted quizzically. The YMIR on the right attempted to flank, slowly, and the quarian raised her shotgun over her cover and fired. Shepard gave her a brief hand signal, then forked her fingers, indicating the two lumbering mechs. They nodded at each other. Shepard spoke into the comm. "Garrus. Friendly Fire." She didn't need to look to her left to see his nod of approval.

Together, Shepard and Tali rose up and hacked the two mechs simultaneously. The Commander took the one on the left, the quarian the flanking mech on the right. Gunfire ceased for a moment as the YMIRs paused, swiveled, and then advanced on one another, meeting in the center of the cargo bay in a brilliant cloud of clashing bullets. Shepard took the particle beam from her back as Garrus and Tali fired away. One mech lost half its foot and crumpled even as it tore the cannon off its partner's right arm. Watching them destroy each other was strangely disquieting. Shepard aimed the Collector weapon at the rightmost mech and fired into its red eye, loving the weapon's hum beneath her skin. She repeated with the YMIR on the left until the tell-tale warning hum issued from both machines. "Down!" she yelled.

All three of them ducked as the dismembered robots succumbed to a ghastly shudder and exploded. Hopping down from the platform, Shepard motioned for her squad and they fell beside her. The cargo office, and their shifty pal Harkin, loomed just above them, accessible only by climbing another set of movable platforms. She huffed in annoyance and pulled herself onto the lowest one, just to the left of the office. As she stood upright on the edge of the platform a series of blasts peppered her shields and knocked her back, limbs flying. She flopped like an upended turtle between Garrus and Tali, who crouched immediately and took cover. Two LOKI mechs emerged from the uppermost level. Fade's last defense.

"Goddamn it." Shepard bounded to her feet once again and ducked.

"Come on. They are sort of sad when you think about it." Tali tapped her omni-tool and sent a battle drone floating serenely toward the upper level. Garrus remained silent, but leveled his rifle at the one LOKI currently unoccupied by the glowing red drone. When the mechs were down, the squad popped up again. Shepard listened, holding her fist up. Then, they moved forward, climbing the platforms like warriors attaining the peak of some jungle-bound temple.

At the top, Shepard pulled her Locust and gestured for Tali to guard the door. Then she put Garrus behind her in formation and they advanced quietly on the open office door. Peeking inside, she saw Harkin at the cargo console, scanning the bay through a small window, looking for them. She nodded at Garrus, and they moved from cover, gliding into the office, weapons trained on the nervous little bald man.

"Shit." Harkin slunk away from the computer, arms raised. Before she could speak, Garrus pushed past her and smashed the man's nose, gripping Harkin's shirt and dragging him up against the back wall - turian nose wrinkling as he stared down into the pained face. It happened so fast that Shepard was still wincing at the sluggish crunch of Harkin's septum when Garrus slung him against the paneling. Blood pooled above the man's lip, saturating the pale stubble there.

"Couldn't make yourself disappear, huh 'Fade'?"

"Garrus. I'm sure we can work something out. What can I help you with?"

Except with his nose broken, Harkin's 'help" came out more like 'hepp.' Standing to the side, Shepard watched the fine, bloody spray from the forger's mouth as he struggled for a casual tone through his pain. Garrus glanced at his Commander and Shepard froze, unsure of whether she should encourage him to proceed. When her blank stare offered nothing, he released Harkin, but kept a threatening palm against the man's chest and spoke down onto the top of his head.

"I'm looking for someone."

"So, I've got something you need?" The merc's eyebrows drew up.

Mistaking his sudden usefulness for freedom, Harkin's blood-muffled voice took on a smug tone. Shepard shook her head at his profound stupidity. Garrus drew back, as if to give the merc some space, and then planted his knee in Harkin's groin. Doubled in agony, he groaned so loudly that Tali poked her head into the office.

The criminal collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. The Commander felt her face shuffle into a scowl. Garrus wanted this. Violence, she knew, mitigated so much of his internal conflicts. Maybe today wasn't the day to convince him otherwise, but she was torn between trying her best to do just that . . .and simply allowing him to plummet down this abyss as he liked.

"Maybe it would be better if you just told us what we need to know," she suggested. Breath seething through clenched teeth, Garrus loomed over the man as he picked himself up. Harkin nodded and the Archangel's voice, thick with menace, filled the small office.

"You helped a friend of mine disappear. A turian named Sidonis."

The forger, with his reassigned nose and his wounded smirk, remained ignorant of his proximity to the precipice of death. In one minute, he could still be breathing, and in the next minute the top of his head could be spread over several feet of the office wall. This was apparent to Shepard, who read Garrus' vibrating rage as easily as he had read hers on Tuchanka. Only, he had accepted her twisted outburst as part of who she was . . .and the resurrected woman feared allowing that fate for her greatest friend. It would be worse, seeing him become a machine of hate, worse than it had been watching his destroyed face falling apart in a river of blue blood. Silence did nothing to soften the turian's stare, and Harkin closed his eyes against it.

"Yeah, I know what you want and you can count me out." He rubbed his neck, exhaling. He had lived among mercenaries and thieves. Shepard saw that Garrus, though he was certainly fierce, wasn't the largest threat the forger would face if he talked.

"Is protecting Sidonis worth this trouble?" She stepped up to him, Locust gesturing. But Harkin only swallowed.

"You gotta understand. Giving out client information is bad for business."

Predictably, Garrus reacted poorly to the man's stubbornness. And Shepard felt herself giving over to his need, just a little, sliding into old ways in the face of frustration. Harkin would live, she thought, even if he came out a little damaged. She observed the heavy, plated fist dropping Harkin to the floor. Her scars glowed suddenly in response, or alarm, sending a red haze across the lower periphery of her vision. The sweeping arch of his cowl swayed as Garrus pressed his boot against the forger's neck. Shepard thought he looked mighty in a sinister way, as if he were about to plant a flag in a conquered land.

"Know what else is bad for business? A broken neck."

The deep trill of his voice ignited her nerves, and warning bells wailed in her brain for some antidote to his fury. Harkin flailed, gripping the two-toed boot that squeezed his throat. The pitiful force of his struggling, his panicked whine, lured Shepard out of her permissiveness. She touched Garrus, and then pulled him when he didn't respond. His boot lifted and he fell back against her. They looked at each other.

It had been a scant day since she had run her hands over him, at his simple and sweet request, scratching his back and watching the shiver of his hide. For those few moments, they had felt perfectly normal. But this Garrus wanted none of that easy joy. Heat passed over him, through him, warming the hands that held him straight through his armor. Shepard felt him pull away from her, his eyes and his body turning back to the writhing criminal on the floor.

"Terminus really changed you." Harkin croaked and spat blood and saliva on the carpet, watery red spittle trailing from his lip.

"No." Garrus shook his head. Behind him, gold eyes were cut off from any further intrusion. He reached down and hauled the man to his feet, propelling him across the office. "Sidonis just opened my eyes. Arrange a meeting, Harkin."

The forger moved to his console with no small amount of reluctance. Garrus pulled his own pistol and Shepard's warning bells clamored between her ears again. While Harkin's uneasy voice went about setting up their meeting, she moved between he and Garrus and concealed the pistol with her body. Everything good she had built around him, around her faith in justice, threatened to unspool into an ugly mess. A gnawing worry formed in the pit of her stomach. Watching his gaze linger on his pistol, Shepard felt invisible and weak. And above anything else, she hated feeling powerless.

Harkin finished, closed his console and held his hands up.

"It's done. He'll meet you in front of Orbital lounge. Middle of the day." He glanced at the office door, eyeing the quarian with the shotgun standing guard. "I did my part. Can I get out of here?"

Garrus gave Shepard a brief, heated glance and pushed past her. He snatched the front of Harkin's blood-stained shirt and pulled the man up onto his toes, pistol digging into the flesh and bone of his jaw.

"I don't think so."

"Killing me isn't your style, Garrus." But Harkin looked to Shepard, unsure if he had bluffed well. She stood back, cupping her elbows in her trembling hands. The possibility that Garrus would not tolerate her meddling in his mission terrified her. She could handle almost anything, but losing him because of this would break her in a way she loathed to consider. The forger, finding no comfort in Shepard, turned his face back to the fiercely scarred one in front of him. Mandibles twitched in consideration.

"Kill? Maybe not. But, I don't mind slowing you down."

Shepard anticipated this much. He wanted blood for blood. And whatever justification there had been for letting Garrus beat the man was fading in the light of a possible muzzle flash. Shooting Harkin, crippling him, would satisfy none of the pain Garrus suffered. She knew that, even if it made her cringe to step in and contradict him. The pistol arced down to the forger's leg and she felt her reflexes jump before any further thought. She snagged Garrus by the elbow and the bullet went wild, sparing Harkin's upper thigh. Part of her was afraid to let go, so she spoke up while still clutching his arm like a little kid.

"He can't hide from C-Sec now."

Garrus did not conceal his momentary flare of anger. He tugged and wrenched his arm from her grasp, and she let him. As things progressed in this mission, even in the small collection of minutes standing in the cargo office, she began to feel the weight of this impenetrable doom, no longer simple worry, growing in her stomach. It roiled and turned over every time Garrus looked at her. He wasn't cold, though. No, Shepard thought, the turian was burning brighter in his desperate rage than she had ever seen before. If any portion of that could be salvaged, reconstructed in the service of good, it would be up to her to accomplish it. It would have to be soon, too. She holstered her pistol and turned to leave.

"Lucky you," he said behind her, presumably to Harkin.

"Yeah, it's been a real pleasure doing business. Never call me again."

She heard the wet crunch of bone again, sickening the tender part of her, and did not need to glance behind her to see Harkin hit the deck, groaning, for a third time. Garrus was beside her in a second, long strides taking him past her and out of the office. Her heart gave a triple beat, thudding its pain as she watched the armored cowl and the spike of fringe leading the way out of the cargo bay.

"I didn't shoot him." He said, without turning.

"Alright, lets finish this." Though quiet, her voice felt strong in her throat and Shepard wondered how long she could hold onto that power.

Tali ducked down in the shuttle's cramped rear seat. The young quarian had attempted, gamely, to break up the fight that was about to happen in the front seat. And when Shepard gave her a quick look, over the headrest, the she hoped Tali had finally settled on keeping out of it.

As if to punctuate her silence, Tali drew her shotgun across her lap and looked out the window. Her words stayed with Shepard, though. As the three of them had climbed into the shuttle under a cloud of surly, turian brooding, Tali spoke to them as only she could. If Garrus wanted someone dead, she had said, the only person in the galaxy who could stop him happened to be the one person he wanted by his side. Getting prickly about Shepard made no sense to her and she literally threw up her hands at them both. Garrus had slammed the shuttle door and hung his head. There they sat in Citadel traffic, silent, until Garrus pulled into the entertainment district and parked among the other cabs in the upper bay.

Shepard watched the district lights shift in their different advertisements, colors sliding effortlessly into one another. She cleared her throat and turned to Garrus.

"Harkin is an insect. He's C-Sec's problem now."

"He deserved to be punished."

"What do you really want out of all this? Is killing Sidonis going to bring them back? Will shooting Harkin change what happened?"

For the first time since they stepped foot on the Citadel for the purpose of hunting down his former teammate, Garrus lingered on Shepard with an obscure sort of agony. But he shuttered it behind a hard look, behind his visor and his need for vengeance. Talons clasped loosely on the shuttle controls.

"You're not wrong. I know that. What's done is done. But I'm not turning back from this now. No matter what you say."

He closed his eyes and leaned back into his armor. Shepard unbuckled her harness. If he thought that was going to serve as cutting the discussion short he was sorely mistaken. She needed him to follow that brief spark of mercy.

"It's not too late."

The Commander's hand reached across the small space between them, silhouetted by the club's lights, and touched Garrus' forearm. The turian's profile appeared in the same silhouette, the two of them framed in the careful confines of the dark shuttle, but he looked away.

"Shepard, what happened to my men was an injustice. And there's no one left who even knows or cares about what happened to them. Weren't you the one who taught me exactly how to deal with an injustice like that?"

She slumped. Pitiless action in face of confrontation had been her trademark. It left no room for compromise and it had served her well. The strength she possessed as a leader had always flowed from this. But the woman who taught Garrus those things was a flaming wreckage of a human being, and Shepard knew she would never be entirely rid of her. Garrus didn't want to be right. He just wanted it to be done.

"This isn't about what I would do."

"Sidonis screwed us. He deserves to die." Garrus looked down at his hands and then, seeming to fail at finding any reason not to, he stared at Shepard. "I know you're worried about me. Don't."

"At least let me talk to him."

"Talk to him? Do what you like; it won't change my mind." He opened his door and nodded toward a railing at the end of the upper shuttle bay. "I'm going to set up over there."

Shepard moved to sit in the driver's seat and Tali leaned forward, handing Garrus his rifle. The Commander tried to capture his eyes, and had to stop herself from snatching at his arms in her desire to protect him from the disintegration of their friendship.

"Keep him talking until I signal you that I've got him in my sights." He hefted the Viper and leaned into the cab, fringe scraping the roof. Shepard started to speak but he cut her off with a pointed talon hovering just over her chest. "And don't get in my way."

A cold look passed between them. Hurt and frustrated, Shepard yanked the shuttle door out of his hand. It slammed shut and she pressed the throttle, sending them up and out into the busy district beyond. Tali watched through the back window, Garrus' powerful form diminishing as they flew away.

"He knows what he's doing. At least he thinks he does." Tali said, hugging the back of the seat in front of her. "If it's a mistake, it's his to make, Shepard."

"We'll see." A sting, like hornets in a mad swirl, gathered in her throat as she tried to focus on the traffic. Shepard glanced backward where they had left Garrus. For a terrifying moment she imagined the shuttle bay collapsing around him and that their argument would be all she had left. The Commander's eyes trailed back to the quarian and Tali sighed, her filtered voice annoyed.

"Now I feel like I'm going to have to talk you out of something."

Shepard looked over at Tali's masked face, giving the girl a sad smile.

"Do you think you could stop me?"

"To save you from suffering regret or worse? I would like to think I would try. No matter what."

"That's exactly how I feel."

She put the shuttle down a little ways from Orbital's busy entrance. The two of them got out and headed through the plaza. Before he spoke into the comm, Shepard felt the sniper's gaze like an intense spotlight following her through the crowd.

_"He's on the bench. One o'clock. Wave him over."_

Looking across the plaza, they spotted him sitting alone outside the lounge. Shepard signaled, and Sidonis nodded, getting to his feet. He was thin, even for a turian, and the Commander noted his darting eyes and the sockets deeply shadowed by sleeplessness. He fidgeted and seemed incapable of holding her gaze.

"Let's get this over with."

In her ear, Shepard strained to hear the hidden Garrus, listening for those frequencies yet again. But only the soft clicking of teeth came over the comm, followed by his insistent voice.

_"You're in my shot, Shepard. Move."_

"I'm here to help you." Though she meant it, the creeping knot of terror roared to life in her stomach. In the plainest terms she could allow her brain to acknowledge, the very real consequence for saving this coward would likely be losing her best friend. It did not stop her from hoping, though, even in the face of the ghostly, premonitory pain in her heart.

"Are you one of Harkin's? I don't recognize you."

"Listen, Sidonis . . ."

"Don't ever say that name out loud."

_"Move! Get out of my shot."_

"I'm a friend of Garrus." The turian's energy ratcheted like a sudden fever. Shepard swore she could feel the air vibrate around him. She stepped closer. "He wants you dead, but I'm hoping that won't be necessary."

"Garrus? Is this a joke?" Sidonis twitched, eyes darting from her face to the various people in the plaza. When he didn't find any likely suspects, he settled on her again. Standing her ground, she shook her head and watched the turian's eyes go bright with realization.

_"Damn you, Shepard. I told you. I'm taking the shot the second he moves."_

Shepard listened to Garrus curse and clench over the comm, but she cut her eyes to the frightened creature in front of her. Sidonis hung his head, fringe sagging in a deep curve against his head.

"You're serious? Screw this. I can't . . . Tell Garrus I had my own problems." As he backed away, still shaking, Shepard snatched at him. Her height, and her grip on his arm were the tenuous bits of safety that shielded Sidonis from death. The feel of his thin bones under her hand, and the sickening heat of his fear, made Shepard wince. She imagined him surrounded by a cabal of mercenaries. Coercing someone like Sidonis would have been a cake-walk. Hadn't she done it a million times herself? She squeezed his arm and her brain kicked over, willing her voice to reach out to both men and bind them together somehow.

"Get off me!" he croaked, but there was little chance of extricating himself from her.

"I move and you get a hole in the head." Shepard's eyes did not blink and he seemed to take the hint. "The last thing I want is to watch that up close. He's listening. Talk."

He froze, eyes drifting shut. "Fuck."

"Eloquent. Come on, try again." She kept her grip on his arm, but let a quirk tug at her mouth. Hell, if she were facing the invisible terror of Garrus, his anger, and his rifle, she would be hard pressed to come up with something better. Fortunately, Sidonis did.

"Garrus was . . .is . . .the best soldier I ever knew. He deserved better than this, and better than me. They all did."

She felt for him. As the words left his trembling mandibles, Shepard saw herself in much the same way. Under her command, few soldiers had made her as proud as Garrus. She felt unworthy of so many of the souls who laid themselves at her feet for the good of the galaxy. The snarling fear working itself in her gut throbbed its agreement. And, because he had remained silent in her ear, she assumed Garrus saw it that way, too.

"Can you tell him I didn't want to do it? I had no choice."

_"Bullshit. We all have choices."_

The sniper's pause had been long enough for a tiny ember of hope to ignite. She was afraid to spook them both, and so allowed silence to spur them toward each other. When Shepard didn't move, didn't respond, Sidonis looked around for his former leader again. As before, she prayed that whatever words came out of this madness would bring Garrus some clarity. Clarity, she realized, that would come at the expense of his faith in her.

_"Don't do this, Shepard. Just move and it will be over."_

Grimacing against the vocalization of that pain, Shepard blinked. Two years ago, if someone she trusted had done to her what she was doing to Garrus she would have put them in the med-bay. But his pause, his careful voice, helped her believe that Garrus had learned to be better than that in her absence. Sidonis broke her melancholy with a labored sigh.

"They threatened me. They were going to kill me if I didn't help them. What was I supposed to do?"

_"Let me take the shot. Please. He's a damn coward."_

A hand went to her ear where his voice tingled. The word _'please'_ rippled in her brain and sent its soft, golden warmth along her spine. Shepard shook her head. "So, that's it? You just did it to save yourself?" Sidonis nodded and shifted, she moved with him as he lurched back to the seating area. Her whole back began to twitch. Being a sniper herself, she never knew how unnerving it was for the person on the other end of the scope . . .provided they happened to know they were on the other end of a scope. Sidonis leaned his thin forearms hard against a railing and made a choked sound in his throat. For a moment she thought he might throw up.

"I know what I did. I know what happened to them. I've been living with it every day. Do you know what that's like? Every time I close my eyes their faces appear. Each one accusing. I wake up sick, sweating."

And just like that, Sidonis disintegrated the wall Shepard had built around her memory of Virmire . . .of Ashley. Even forming the shape of her name felt like someone else's memory. Once or twice since coming back, she had felt the woman's presence as if it were about to walk around a corner and confront her. Just before waking, she might see the soldier's face. Ash would simply give a dutiful nod and melt away, screaming. So Shepard had constructed a hidden fortress in her memory for Ashley and hoped one day to return there when she was stronger. Though so much of this day had withered the defenses around it, she had not expected to be faced with it so soon.

"I can imagine."

Her voice traveled the comm, but she didn't care if Garrus understood. He was quiet. Though so far he had nothing but curses for her when he did speak into her ear, she wanted his voice inside her head. If he could live there, see what terrors awaited him down her bloody path, Shepard was certain he could not shoot this pitiful turian.

"I'm already dead," Sidonis continued. "What difference would it make if I just let him take the shot?"

_"Let me put him out of his misery, then."_

"Garrus, look at him. Really look. He'll pay for this for the rest of his life."

_"A life he doesn't deserve."_

Taking a risk, Shepard leaned her hip against the railing beside the bowed turian and hoped her friend could observe the total loss so evident in Sidonis' face. For his part, the broken man looked up at her with palpable resignation. She held her breath, waiting for a rifle crack. When it didn't come, she exhaled and uttered her own burning plea.

"Please. Can't you see what he is now? He's a shell. There's nothing to kill."

Over the comm there was only silence. The twisted, flailing worry in her stomach flopped and writhed its warning. She let herself hope that Garrus would not hate her. In sacrifice, she gave over something precious and horrible to help them both.

"I know how he feels. To taste nothing, to breathe death, and to wake up shaking from nightmares that don't always stay in the dark." She fought the desperate need to look at Garrus, and instead settled for hoping he could capture her face in his mind as she spoke. "Trust me when I tell you that the price he's paying is worth sparing him the bullet."

After a prolonged pause, Garrus let his voice be heard. And Shepard felt the heat of its misery in her ear.

_"My men-"_

"Tell Garrus that . . .well, there's nothing I can say. It won't bring them back. Won't make it right."

The pause was too great. Spider silk scars trembled with red light, as if her very neural pathways waited to hear his response. He would not shoot now. She was sure of it. Her relentless pursuit of what was right had worked, Sidonis lived, and Garrus would never forgive her. The ember of hope for their friendship foundered and died in a thin haze of smoke in her heart. She wanted to be away from all this, even as his deep voice confirmed what she already knew.

_"Tell him to go. Now."_

"You have a second chance, Sidonis. Don't waste what you've been given here today."

"I'll try to . . .Garrus, I'll make it up to you somehow." The way he looked around the plaza almost made Shepard smile. In that moment Sidonis appeared to be looking for a god to talk to. Mostly, she thought he looked like a child. He grabbed her arm as she turned to leave him. "Thank you."

Having Sidonis owe his life to her made Shepard feel no better about the hidden gaze still lingering on them from afar. She gave the haunted turian a lift of her chin. It was all she could manage under the weight she had shouldered in his place. He walked away and Shepard wheeled to find Tali at her side. When the Commander only stared, dazed, at the abandoned railing where Garrus had been, the quarian patted her shoulder.

"Want to skip the part where we pick up Garrus and just sneak back to the Normandy?"

"God, is that seriously an option?"

"No, not really."

Shepard exhaled, physically deflating. "Alright. Soonest begun is soonest done."

They made their way back to the shuttle.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"It doesn't look good, Shepard." Tali said as she watched Garrus stomp toward their landing pad in the shuttle bay. "Want me to get out first?"

"No, stay in the shuttle. We'll only be a minute. I think I can handle this."

She popped the shuttle door and swung herself out, heavy. Garrus tried to move past her without a word, but she blocked him and they collided. He scowled behind his visor, and large hands pushed against her armored hips. She grappled with his arm. Her own fearsome expression crawled out to meet his, scars glowing from her neck to her cheeks. The shuttle bay echoed with the sound of clashing armor. They stood back from one another, breathing heavily in their shared anger. Garrus shook his head.

"Don't talk to me about this. Not right now, okay?"

"It wasn't what you planned, I know. But, you did the right thing."

The last thing she intended was to sound so condescending. But it was exactly the tone that came from her mouth, like it or not. Garrus held her gaze, furious blue against blazing gold. His feet pulled him from side to side, pacing.

"Did I do the right thing for my men? I'm not so sure "

"What do you think? You saw Sidonis."

"He was . . ." Long arms, heavy in their gauntlets, came up in a gesture like supplication, and then fell again. The surrender in his voice brought Shepard no joy. "There was something good there. I couldn't do it."

"Good and evil are just concepts. There is so much more to people than that. Especially the people we know."

Shepard watched Garrus look down the bay at the place where he had set up his shot. Had she truly stolen this from him? Clearly he thought so. In the end, he could have taken the shot, she thought. He could admit at least that much. For as much as she interfered, Garrus had more than enough opportunity to shoot Sidonis, and he simply hadn't been able to . . .once she got him talking. Every justification presented itself, but each rang hollow as she looked at her hands and thought of how he had shoved her . . .and how she had flushed with the momentary desire to do more than shove him back.

"Black and white, good and evil. It's simpler that way. Elegant. Remember?" He let loose just a taste of the venom she feared.

The sweeping fear of exactly this confrontation roiled in her gut and sent tendrils of panic to her brain. If there was a chance they could recover from this, if Garrus could move past her interference, they would have to do it on the Normandy. As they continued to stare at each other, Shepard needed the safety of her ship around her. Finding his impatient pacing too much, she finally stepped aside and he folded himself into the shuttle without a backward glance.

Tali gave Shepard a vague shake of her head. It was a warning few might have recognized, and one Shepard chose to ignore. She climbed in, slammed the shuttle door and launched them into Citadel traffic.

"I've always erred on the darker side of gray, Garrus, you're right. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to be better than that. You don't have to agree, but at least try to understand."

"I don't know what to do with gray."

"The point is that there are always options."

"Not with you around."

She gawked at him. But Garrus kept his eyes off her. Tali withered further back in her seat as the shuttle wavered and snaked through the other vehicles.

"You asked for my help. Keeping you from making a huge mistake falls under the general rules of helping."

"Who do you think you're talking to, Shepard? Because I know who I'm looking at." And he did just that, with all the unfurling force of his anger. "I'm looking at the woman who ordered me to gun down Saleon. You ordered me to remember that feeling, so I did. I remember it so well that I can tell you where the blood splatter went when he tried run away. So, I'm a little confused."

"Jesus, Garrus, Saleon?"

Her hands went a little slack on the controls as she let her mind shuffle backwards through the silt of her memory. She paused on Saleon's smug face, the way it crumbled under her menace, and the halting way he had jerked his pistol out and tried to bolt.

"Shepard, eyes on the traffic." Tali cringed as they swerved past a cargo ship and dove downward toward Zakeera's ship docking bay. They could see the Normandy as they approached and Shepard heard Tali sigh with relief inside her mask. Garrus gave his head a bitter shake.

"I warned you not to talk to me about this."

"Well, don't hold back now. Clearly you've got something you want to say. Let's have it."

She pulled hard on the nose and shuttle slowed, rattling its disapproval. They drifted in line behind other shuttles sliding into parking spaces. Twisting in his cramped seat, Garrus opened the floodgates and drowned her fragile expectations for their future.

"What was so hard about letting me have this, Shepard?"

"You said yourself you made the right decision." It was unfair to downplay her role, she knew, but in the end he really had been the one to spare Sidonis. This felt like holding an umbrella against a rockslide. Her weakness enraged her, and she fumed, refusing to give over entirely. Garrus cocked his head and continued, voice silken with savagery.

"Did I? The way I remember it, you hounded me about being absolutely sure about what I wanted until I couldn't think straight. Then I heard myself agreeing with you. Then it was over."

Tali gripped her seat as the shuttle ground to a stop in a parking space. She exhaled and swore under her breath. "Keelah"

"I won't apologize for trying to . . .to keep you from suffering the same mistakes I did."

That he wasn't entirely wrong made little difference to Shepard. Her insides felt divided by some deep quake, and whatever was climbing up through the cracks offered only agony. If she had been resurrected with urge for justice and benevolence it might have been easier. But choosing to change who she was, seeing the value and strength in grace, had been the single hardest thing she'd ever faced. And, she had fought Haliat's Blitz troops with virtually nothing but cutlery and rocks! It should have been simple to explain this desire to her closest friend and comrade. It should have been simple for him to understand why it was necessary. She wrenched the door open and hurled herself out of the shuttle. The Commander paced the busy corridor as Garrus and Tali extricated themselves.

Garrus pointed at her.

"No one asked you to do that."

"No one had to. If I were about to accidentally blow my brains out, you would stop me, right?"

The turian growled, actually growled. It seemed to surprise all three of them. Tali touched his shoulder. They glanced around at the people busily getting in and out of their transports. Shepard looked at the faces that had stopped to watch their argument. The strangers took one look at the tracery of glowing scars creeping up her jawline, the posturing turian only inches from her armored boots, and returned to their own lives.

Shepard swept a trembling hand through her hair and looked at Garrus. The terrible ache of his inevitable abandonment broke free of her gut and sent its poison deep into her bones. Being without him, and being the very reason he left, was a pain she could not brace for. It wrenched a sudden whine from her lips and caught Garrus' attention. His eyes drifted over her face, her shoulders. He was breathing heavily.

"I need some distance from this. Let's go."

He stalked the broad corridor, past the customs desk, and headed for the Normandy's docking hatch. Tali followed, her masked face glancing backward to find Shepard a few steps behind. But the Commander was a world away, unclenching her mind from Sidonis, from Ashley, from anything but fixing this. To focus on it, though, was like trying to gather molten rock with only her hands.

As they gathered at the hatch, Shepard flinched at the weight of her own voice, but was glad for its power.

"We're not done."


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first cut is the deepest.

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

Flamma fumo est proxima.

 _Flame follows smoke._

Plautus

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The three of them fairly bolted through the Normandy's hatch and whisked past Joker. He swiveled in time to watch Shepard stomp after Garrus as the turian strode through the CIC. Tali stood in the cockpit doorway, watching them go.

"Whoa. Rough day?" Joker's voice called over the quarian's shoulder. She nodded, filtered voice solemn.

"And it's only getting worse."

The two figures cutting through the CIC left a nearly visible wake of red-hot animosity.

"Give it time." Shepard called to his back. Garrus would not escape to his hidey-hole before she was satisfied. He wouldn't stop, though, and only grunted over his shoulder at her as he headed for the elevator.

"Time. Yeah, that might be all I need."

They stood together, fuming, waiting for the door to open. Dozens of eyes in the CIC attempted, and failed, to look casual while their Commander and the turian rebel eyed each other with unrestrained furor. Kelly turned from her console, intending to diffuse their palpable anger, and thought better of it when Shepard shot her a look.

At last, the elevator door opened, and they stepped inside. Once they were alone, Shepard was reminded so keenly of the times they had talked and joked over so many tedious elevator rides that she forgot to signal the deck they wanted. Garrus reached around her and tapped the console, wordlessly, refusing to look at her. But she knew what that particular mandible movement meant.

"Just stop it. We're already in this. Say what you need to say."

"You knew how I felt about this mission. But, you just had to swoop in and correct me. The worst part isn't that you intervened, Shepard." His voice dripped with abuse. "The worst part is you pretending that you didn't mold me into the killer you set out to stop today."

Hugging her elbows, the Commander dropped her head. Within her belly, the horror of their fight expanded and wriggled its claw-tipped fingers into her spine. There would be no extrication, of course, because he was right. The door slid open, and he was out, moving around the corner before she could exit.

"Wait, Garrus."

The dining hall was full. As she trotted forward to capture him, Shepard barely registered Gardner at his station. Miranda and Jacob were having a post-dinner chat together at the table, and Gabby and Kenneth forked over the last of their dessert to Kasumi as she beat them at cards. Even Mordin was there, giving his usual, animated tongue a rest as he listened to Zaeed over what might have been two cups of coffee.

All this was as a blur from a passing comet. She saw only Garrus, needed only him. And he was getting away. Any sense of propriety or dignity died in the blank spaces of her vision, near the obscured edge where her crew sat, as Shepard's brain bypassed everything but the turian. Panic seized control of her voice and applied the pressure she needed.

"HALT, SOLDIER!"

The room fell silent, as it should when a superior bellows an order at the top of her lungs. Crew and squad members alike watched their wild-eyed Commander stride through the deck toward Garrus, who had indeed stopped in his tracks. She felt the flags of crimson climbing her cheeks. What a priceless portrait of craziness she must make, Shepard thought, with a blush of fury painting her face on top of the flaming scars and the red hair. Her sudden discomfort diminished, by some miserable miracle, into the gray blur where everything lived but him. Shame was nothing new. If he could look at her, if he could only see what he was becoming, then public shame was a small price to pay. What mattered was that he stopped. She breathed.

Garrus turned and she felt all eyes on them, but only one set truly held her. And they were fierce, with a blue so vivid that bright flecks stood out deep within them. She unclenched her fists, voice hoarse and loud.

"There is power in mercy. More than you know. If I can see that, why can't you?"

He didn't answer her, only continue to glare. Shepard took a step, and then another. Fear and sadness whined in harmony in her head. "You don't seem to hear me, or don't want to."

"I've never had a choice but to hear you." He matched her, raising his voice, and its flinty edge caused more than a few crew members to stand and move away. Shepard and Garrus stared at one another, and he crossed his arms. "Though, that's not true any more. And maybe that's what really gets under your skin. Maybe the problem isn't that I'm doing the wrong things. . ."

Heavy feet took him to her, right up against her armor. Were she a little taller they would have been nose to nose. Shepard's head filled with him; the grit of his rage, and the raw look he couldn't hide. He continued, cocking his head.

"No. The problem is that this isn't about you. You can't stand the idea that I could possibly have something outside of you." He stepped even closer. It was infinitesimal, really, but it put him close enough to push her with his armor. And, when her small, inner voice began to again enumerate the pitifully few reasons to stand so close to someone, he broke through her silence and showed her, with a growl, where his choice lay.

Shepard did not flinch. Garrus let the growl deepen. Somewhere nearby a chorus of chairs scraped the floor. She was still their leader, though, and neither the unseen squad members nor the growling turian had ever truly heard the full, terrible timbre of Shepard's command. It had been a while since that woman made herself at home. Now she clambered from the void with a dead snarl.

"Stand down."

"Commander, stop this." Miranda attempted a bit of that control herself and fell short. Shepard and Garrus ignored her. The operative approached them, and Jacob followed.

"Miranda. Stay out of it." Shepard's vicious serenity was directed at the grinding mandibles in front of her. She hadn't blinked in more than a minute "Garrus, stand down."

"No."

As he spoke, all the remaining non-squad members broke their paralysis and wisely abandoned the dining area. Even Gardner slipped away. Shepard registered their movements like a vapor in her periphery.

"Not for this. I will not let you pretend that shedding the person you were, like some worn out skin, means I have to fall in line without question. There are questions, Shepard." Calm had no defense against this. Shepard flared. Eyes, nostrils and burning scars writhed on her face. Garrus waited for some response, quiet filling the space in her mind where his growling voice had echoed.

Again, Miranda and Jacob moved forward, and they were joined by Mordin and Kasumi. The Commander thought they looked like zookeepers advancing on a ferocious beast. Even more than on Tuchanka, she felt closer to beastly. And as she had before, sitting in the dark shuttle beside Miranda, Shepard pushed hard against her paranoia. Her head whipped around, finding the Cerberus operatives, and they paused. She would not be handled, not by them.

"Miranda, take the squad and vacate the Mess. That is a direct order." Shepard watched the brunette struggle to compose an argument. But Miranda lifted her chin, glancing at Garrus and back to her Commander, before backing down with a warning of her own.

"You have ten minutes, Commander. Decide which course of action you will be comfortable explaining to the Illusive Man after he gets my brief." Though she was cool as ever, Shepard suspected the operative was terrified of being forced to intervene.

"Understood. Now get out. All of you." The Commander graced each of them with a steely nod.

Miranda gestured at the remaining squad, looking briefly to Jacob before turning on her heel and heading for her quarters.

Mordin inhaled and narrowed his black eyes. Kasumi gave Shepard a pained look, so filled with confusion that she dearly wished the thief had been anywhere else this particular evening. They were strangers, as she saw them now, and they judged her as openly as she deserved. But they left her all the same, backing away and then receding fully to the elevator. Whether or not they peered at the stubborn pair from behind the wall, or hidden in the med-bay, Shepard decided not to care. Only Zaeed stayed, flush with his usual confidence, and leaned against the kitchen cabinets to watch Shepard's circus of devastation.

When she was sure the squad were reasonably tucked away, she turned back to Garrus. Now that he had her attention again, he seemed eager not to waste it. Looking her over, he fed the storm of Shepard's heady, internal bedlam with a sneer. And now there was no audience to speak of, and nothing to keep them on the right side of civil.

Garrus growled again and shoved her with the chestpiece of his armor.

"You want me to congratulate you on your newfound conscience? Pat you on the back like everyone else and forget every lesson in death you ever taught me? How many Saleons did we put down together?"

Too many exit wounds exploded behind her eyes. Too many clinking glasses, shared in triumph, sullied the point she was trying to make. Shepard fought to keep her voice from drowning in grief.

"I'll never forget. Not a single one. Maybe you shouldn't either." Shepard pushed back, fingers pressing, turning to white in the same spot over his heart she had touched, with a very different, intent only hours before. It seemed like years ago. She could imagine the strong pulse beneath her hand, but it was shadowed by his insistent growl. As the voice in her divided mind shouted, she got softer, more intense, and continued, "But remembering doesn't mean you lose yourself to every dark impulse, Garrus. You know what that looks like."

"Deciding that you want to be a shining beacon of honor doesn't make it so." He shook his head, sending the last of his growl echoing in the empty kitchen, and tore her hand off his armor. The skin where he gripped her tingled briefly with rage and need. Garrus stared down at her, ignoring how she tugged her hand back. "So let's stop pretending that you suddenly care about the shifting line we drew across so many people."

"I'm not going to let this go because you want to make it harder. Make me relive it all, let's go." The soft edges of her words turned crisp. Shepard threw her arms wide. "But it all leads to the same place. You made the right choice today. Maybe you won't do it tomorrow or the next day, but when you do it enough it starts to feel like . . ." She could have sobbed with the effort it took to describe it. That she wanted to say it at all made her tremble. "It starts to feel like you know why you're here."

They stared at one another, the sound of their angry breathing took the place of any immediate insult. But Garrus clicked his sharp teeth together and looked away. Shepard recognized it as stalling. He'd done it before, arguing with his father, with Tali, with anyone who had the upper hand. The turian snorted and started to turn away before deciding to dig in his heels and fight for real. A talon sliced at the air in front of her face.

"Well I'm glad that's all cleared up for you. But, I have a question."

If there had been an ounce of compassion left in him after this day, he might not have continued. But, Shepard knew him well enough to sense that his capacity for understanding was spent. The urge hunt, to maim, overtook them both. But it was Garrus that struck first.

"What about Ash?" He scratched at his bandages. Shepard blinked, sure that razors were literally shredding her nerves. Instead, it was the mocking edge riding his words that tore her open. "I'm confused about where that decision falls in your selective memory. She didn't just give her life, Shepard. You ordered her to die. Is that why she was here? Do you think Ashley would be proud that your new perspective on life makes her just another notch on your way to redemption?"

His controlled voice, with its many layers, swelled and flowed over her unbelieving face. The fissure that threatened her very sanity broke apart. Within the deepest, softest part of her, Shepard allowed her sorrow to be born in fire. It howled and trembled beneath her skin and raced along her nerves, feeding the biotic elements it found with ferocity and violence. Outwardly, the Commander only stood still, her shattered heart awaiting the death of everything. And Garrus continued, uncaring of the consequences for doing so.

"I guess you just chalked her up alongside thousands of other necessary evils. But hey, as long as you feel better about your place in the world. . ." He took her hand and patted it.

Blue light shimmered from somewhere between them. Dimly, Shepard saw fear spike across his face, and Garrus dropped her hand. Her voice seeped out, as hollow as the Harbinger's had been.

"Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch."

Though her vision blurred, Shepard watched the turian fly backward along the pod bay corridor. Her biotic force slammed him against the door to the main battery. As he slumped, unmoving, pain coiled at the base of her skull and she closed her eyes. Ashley was there, calling her Skip and making her cringe with phantom joy. When she opened her eyes Garrus shook his head, still crumpled on the floor. He groaned, and to Shepard it sounded like a growl, and a promise of greater misery. She wailed and turned to the kitchen. Perhaps she saw Zaeed a moment before her biotic cloud snatched Gardner's knives from their rack, but it seemed to matter less than the need to have them. In any case the old merc dropped behind the island as the knives whirred past his ear.

"Stay down." The hollow voice commanded Garrus from behind the floating utensils. When he looked up at her, glowering at the end of the hallway, Shepard saw flames bubbling on the surface of Virmire. She saw Ash gliding through the stillness of Horizon, replacing Kaidan in a stilted, pitiful moment of fantasy. She saw Garrus, superimposed and doubled on himself, at once snarling insults at her and laying, demolished, in a pool of blood. Anguish took Shepard's throat and twisted. "Stay down, or so help me I'll rip your goddamned fringe out!"

Garrus lurched to his feet and jogged down the corridor at her. The pulsing cloud exploded toward him, and he dove, tucking and rolling over the steps to avoid it. Knives clanged against the pods and whistled down the hall. Falling had put him nearly at her feet, and he swerved to avoid being kicked. Her wretched resentment owned Shepard now, and it graced her with speed. She landed a boot against Garrus' stomach, and he pitched away, shielding himself from another blow.

"Commander, stop this." Shepard sucked a deep breath and closed her eyes. In the crimson haze crowding her mind, it could have been anyone's voice. But this one was cold, and it didn't care about her pain. If it were feminine, and lacked the trilling effect, it could have been her mother.

She whirled to find Thane standing just at the edge of the dining area. He was quiet. That was no surprise. But, Shepard found his sudden presence to be a keen reminder of how far she'd come from simple embarrassment to outright degradation.

"Please, just stay out of it!" The unintended comparison to her mother had Shepard edging on a whine. "We . . .need to do this." And when Thane cocked his head, asking with his great, searching eyes, she was sure she could not answer if 'we' meant she and Garrus. . .or simply the warring halves of herself.

Beside the drell, a figure shimmered out of nothing and Kasumi de-cloaked.

"Shep, snap out of it." The thief murmured, concern deepening the husky voice. She pushed her hood back and took a step toward Garrus, still crouched on the mess hall floor. Thane put a hand on Kasumi's shoulder.

"She won't kill him."

"I'm sure he finds that very comforting." Kasumi crossed her arms and glanced over at Zaeed, who saluted her from behind the kitchen island where he'd resumed his position as silent spectator. Shepard's fearsomeness, her naked antagonism, thwarted the thief's desire to protect. She stepped back, keeping an eye on Shepard.

"Go, please," the Commander insisted, hoping it was the last time she would have to say it. The two stealthy squad mates nodded at her, clearly still uneasy. But, as he moved to join Kasumi, Thane flicked his gaze to a point over her the Shepard's shoulder

She swiveled to find Garrus coming at her. He struck out with a long leg, and she went down hard. From her position on the floor, she wrapped her legs around his, kicking his spurs as she did, and twisted until the looming figure dropped. Coming to her knees, she punched him in the jaw and felt the tiny bones in her hand sing in dismay. His head rocketed to the side, and she gripped a handful of fringe, yanking. Garrus pushed her, long, heavy arms extricating her from his body. They scrambled to their feet. He dodged away as a shockwave erupted from her and bounced both dining tables against the back wall. Before she could hurl another biotic force at him, the turian headbutted Shepard. Dazed, she sidestepped and narrowly avoided an elbow that whistled toward her face. Again, Ashley's voice snickered from deep in the severed part of her. Sack up, Skipper, she laughed. While Shepard lost her momentum in the memory, Garrus snagged both her wrists and looped his arms around her back, immobilizing her like a straight jacket. Panic bloomed in her chest, traveling to her hands where blue light crackled like an ignited gas. Garrus barked in surprise, and Shepard smelled burning flesh. They danced up against the kitchen island as she struggled against his weight.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" The sound that accompanied Shepard's venom, though, was sobbing. And there was no hiding from it. Her head swam, rattled by the pain inflicted by turian's forehead. Garrus was so close, fighting to hold her still, and she knew her bare misery shocked him by the softening of his grip. But he held on, the rough plates of his palms scorching under her biotics. She let her head drop against his armor as sobs wracked her. Behind the red prickle of her eyelids, Ashley's face waited, and so Shepard kept her eyes on the turian. She struggled not just with the pain of being bound, but the humiliation of watching Garrus look at her with dawning pity. Arms crossed and held tight against her ribcage, she whimpered and sagged against him. "Let go of me, you bastard."

Mandibles flared, touching her temple. He opened his mouth to speak but appeared to find nothing suitable to say, and then the rigid body pinning her to the kitchen island slackened.

Every bone in her body felt like molten lead. Shepard acknowledged heat, Garrus' heat, pushing through his armor to her cheek. Or was she on fire? Did it matter? Her eyeballs ached, her skin crackled with salty stains. Even the rasp of her breathing sounded like the sighs of firewood succumbing to ash. But, he exhaled deeply, sending her hair into her face, and freed her wrists. Heavy as an anchor, her head dropped back to see blue eyes, the ever-present visor, and the stony brow all revealing nothing but further confusion.

"Shepard."

The voice she had come to crave mocked her with its softness. She wasn't ready for soft. Fury seized her again and she shoved him, hooking a leg behind his knee, and followed him to the ground. Her left forearm pressed into the soft hide below his chin, threatening his airway and turning the bandaged side of his face against the floor. Garrus stilled beneath her. She dragged her right hand to the back of his head, cupping and bringing her face close to his earbud. The thrill of menace and torment boiled behind her armor. She ran her sharp thumbnail along the hide behind his jaw, letting her hair trail in his mouth and on his neck.

"God." She whispered, ashamed of her own bloodlust. "You have to leave. Get out of my sight. I want to hurt you so bad I can taste it. You mention her like that, just like that, and try to hold me down. As if it were nothing to me. The blackest part of me aches to pull your guts out and strangle you with them. Is that black-and-white enough? Is it the kind of life you want for yourself?"

She registered the pained rolling of his eyes in their deep sockets. He groaned and shifted under her. Where moments ago she might have tightened her grip, Shepard found the movement woke her . . .the real her. It was Garrus beneath her. Garrus whose strong hands pushed at her shoulders, and she let them. But sitting on him, weighing him down with her body was Shepard's last hope. Everything else in her arsenal was spent. He complied with whatever wordless need she conveyed and sat up only enough to be able to look her in the eye. They stayed like that, the two of them too stunned to remember how to say anything, and too stubborn to take the first steps away from this ignominy. She wanted to touch his face, but her fingers moved tentatively over her own instead. They had scars enough between them for a whole squad. What on earth was she doing trying to rip them all open again?

Dropping her head, she saw his upturned palms, half curled against her greaves. They were blackened. Before she could reach for them, Garrus shifted, sitting up awkwardly with his Commander still clinging to him with her thighs. He massaged his neck where her arm had been, keen eyes never wavering from the woman kneeling over him.

"Were you ever going to talk about Ash? I only want to know because, honestly, it's becoming harder to remember why we did the things we did." Though he was softer with her, the acid retreating from most of the syllables, Garrus continued to clench his mandibles and look at Shepard as if waiting for some great apology. He let his talons drop away and she heard herself sigh. There was no apology to be had. What a flimsy prospect that seemed now. There wasn't a reason to make him lay there any longer, either, suffering their combined lack of intuition.

Disgusted with herself, with what they had done to each other, Shepard disentangled from Garrus and stood. At least her howling rage had diminished, found some rocky place inside her to slither under and regroup. She held her arm out, and the poignancy of pulling Garrus from the position she had put him in did not escape her. They stood together, breathing hard, uncaring of the encroaching silence. Fresh tears pooled in Shepard's amber eyes. As she spoke, Garrus hung his head.

"You mourned your team, and I felt that for you, shared it when no one else could understand. You've . . .you turned that into such hypocrisy. You think, actually believe, I felt nothing for what I did on Virmire?" The hollow quality was gone from her voice, but every word still scraped her raw and came out broken. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'm heartless? Because I didn't dissolve into a helpless child when I failed her? Her death mattered. That's all there is."

Her long legs carried her backward by careful degrees. She stepped away from the urge to fight with him and understood what it was she truly wanted. The cherished outcome her little voice had pushed her toward . . .seemed unreal but so achingly near. Garrus held his hands out, and for the first time since they left the Normandy to find Sidonis he said something genuine, and without the taint of insecurity. It rolled from him like the last grumble of a receding storm.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head, denying how simple he made it sound after all their bitterness. He meant it. Looking at his face, the raised line of his brow and the way his jaw hung open, Shepard knew he was sorry that she had imploded because of him. But there was every possibility that he couldn't take that further, and apologize for heaping all his fears on top of the pyre she had created.

"Take it out on me. If it makes you feel better about Sidonis. Hate me for as long as you need to. But don't—"

"Shepard. I'm sor-"

"DON'T! Don't . . .take yourself away."

"Stop it. Will you listen to me?" Garrus swayed toward her. The remaining words, whichever ones Shepard imagined he might string together, died in his throat. He settled again for the supplicating gesture, a frustrated growl lurking behind his teeth.

She had reached the edge of the dining room and found herself surrounded by emptiness: no lights, no sound, nothing left but the ruined space she had blasted through her own life. Even Thane and Kasumi had moved back, watching her silently from behind Zaeed at the edge of Miranda's door. She needed to be clear of this. Garrus shook his head and tried once again to interrupt, to step forward. But her voice, silvery with hurt, halted him.

"You turning your back on me is worse than suffocating. Worse than dying slowly and praying for mercy. So don't ask me to watch you do it. Call me whatever you like. I'm a monster, or I'm a fake. But, I won't watch you . . .leave me. Allow me that."

With the world swarming back into view, Shepard lurched away from the kitchen and dragged her exhausted body toward the elevator. Her biotic outburst had tapped her completely and she had little reserve for standing and talking, but she carried herself wearily to the elevator.

Glued to his spot in the bright lights of the kitchen, Garrus watched her go. And, it was minutes, or hours maybe, before life returned to the deck. Little by little, the Normandy's crew filtered around him, murmuring softly as they passed the turian.

No one seemed to notice Zaeed doing his best to put things to rights. He shoved away from the kitchen counter and moved through the pod corridor, collecting the knives Shepard had flung there. Passing Garrus on his way back to the kitchen, Zaeed clapped him on the back. The old merc sauntered down to the tables and muscled everything back into its place. He stopped to nod at Thane and Kasumi, who chatted quietly about whether or not to speak to Garrus. The turian was shell-shocked, immobile, and seemed incapable of doing more than gazing solemnly at his open palms.

"Well someone should do something," Kasumi huffed. "At least make sure he's not hurt. And what about Shep?"

"Oi. Leave 'em be. Saw hundreds of fights like that in my day. They'll get over it. Always do."

"You've seen mercs fight like that hundreds of times?" Kasumi gestured with a gloved hand. Thane remained silent and smiled, in his vague way, down at the carpet. Zaeed leaned into the thief's slight frame and winked at her.

"No, love. My parents."

  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"EDI, no visitors. No anything. No Kelly. No messages. No fucking Collectors. No anything." Shepard tore through her cabin, kicking everything within boot-range: the coffee table, the sofa, her desk, her chair, and a datapad that found its way to the floor.

"Yes, Commander."

She wanted to flop over on the bed and sleep for a week. How luxurious to lock the door and let herself doze and grow rank with self-pity. Instead, she sighed and went to the bathroom. There, she washed her face and patted it dry, observing the puffiness she earned from her tears and the fading, deep shimmer of red from the fine scars at her neck and jaw. She raked steady hands through her hair, shaking it, and rubbing her scalp. Moments passed, her eyes closed, standing in the bathroom, and she finally dropped her arms.

"EDI. Lock me in. For the next few hours I don't exist to anyone, understood?"

"Understood, Commander."

The shower beckoned. Who was she to deny it? Not after a day like this. She stripped and began the ritual that made her so happy for a few glorious minutes. Hot water. Fresh-smelling soap. Clean hair. She dimmed the lights in the bathroom and throughout her cabin. Things seemed less ugly and raw in the dark. As she rinsed, inhaling the deep green scent of her shampoo, Shepard felt renewed.

She toweled off, let her hair dry to a natural wave, and prowled naked around her quarters, reveling in the total lack of intrusion from any outside force. Roving her scant belongings for something clean to wear, she gave up and settled on simply getting by in her pajamas. She had thrown furniture, hurled knives and grossly abused her command. What did it matter now, late at night, if someone saw her wearing something other than her uniform? She slipped into the two oversized pieces, made of silk in cornflower blue, and went to her terminal.

There she found a message from Miranda, as promised, informing her of a meeting with the Illusive Man first thing in the morning. A now-familiar ache returned to the raw space behind Shepard's eyes.

It occurred to her to be just a little proud of herself. In her recent past, Shepard had crossed the line with her subordinates, bent the rules of conduct like balsawood, and hadn't given two shits about the consequences. Now, though, she had created something for which to be wholly contrite, and she had no trouble composing a direct, heartfelt apology to her entire crew and squad. What she had done was beyond the pale. At the very least she owed them the most professional message she could muster, hoping it might restore any bruised faith in her. To make up for it, she was planning a rather large purchase back in the Citadel's markets. The way into anyone's good graces, out in the monotony of space, was through their stomachs.

Once again, though, there was a message that itched to flow through her fingers. Staring at the letter L on her keyboard, Shepard nodded, and the sensation of Garrus moving beneath her trickled up. It teased gooseflesh on the skin of her thighs under the silk pajamas. It felt thrilling and difficult. But it didn't feel wrong. If she was contemplating Garrus, desperate to keep him near her for reasons that were obviously outside the realm of platonic friendship, then Liara deserved to know. The selfish part of her insisted that until something concrete materialized . . .well, what the asari didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Before she could disagree with herself, EDI spoke softly in the cabin.

"Commander. Garrus is seeking entry. He has been asking for the past twenty minutes."

Shepard marveled at EDI's capacity for learned behavior. She was whispering. Or at least her AI approximation of it. In lieu of a schoolyard girlfriend with which to share her private life, Shepard found EDI more than agreeable.

"Twenty minutes?" Closing her terminal she imagined him standing in the dark alcove, trying to reason with EDI, and not knowing how to give up and leave. She certainly understood that impulse.

"EDI. Can you open a two-way channel between my cabin and the . . .exterior?"

"Of course, Commander."

She moved to the door, her heart suddenly in a stampede to beat her there. It was dark in her room, but she still felt raw, and if she couldn't face Garrus she could at least hear his voice, and give him hers.

"I'm here. What is it?"

"Can I come in? Please."

It felt so good to hear him. Yes was the reply from her fingers and her gut. She wished a thousand times over that her brain had as much courage as the rest of her. Parts of her had already gleefully kicked down the remaining boundaries between she and Garrus. Her brain, though, swelled with outright fear of the unknown. Her hand reached out, touching the door.

"No. Whatever you need to say . . .save it until I come out on my own, okay?"

"This won't wait."

"Then just tell me and go. I'm not ready to see you. And, I don't think you're ready to see me, either."

There was a long pause, she heard his breath, the shuffle of his feet, and a clicking sound. It was a few moments before she connected it. His talons on the door.

"Two years ago, I followed Liara. When I found out she was looking for your body I started keeping tabs on her. Always in secret, always from a distance. She never knew I was there." The clicking ceased. "No one knew. She and her contact, the drell, got into trouble. They were ambushed by mercs." He paused again and a sigh made its way from his side to hers. "So, I shot them all. Liara escaped to find you, and that's all I cared about. I never meant to keep it from you. You just . . .it was hard to say anything after Nos Astra. I'm sorry, Shepard."

In her cabin, the exhausted woman leaned heavily on the door, forehead resting on the cool metal. Everything was cool to her overheated skin: the door, the silk, her bare feet on the chilly floor. The story inviting itself in her brain was washed in cool colors. She imagined Liara, defiant and outnumbered. Garrus, hidden, protecting her the only way he knew how. All of it surreal. And all for the love of a totally unworthy woman who managed to save the world sometimes. She had thought escaping to her quarters would lend her immunity to any further self-loathing for a few hours. Garrus seemed determined to remind her, sweet as it was, that even dying hadn't saved any of them from the burden of Shepard's bloody legacy.

"Why tell me this now?"

"Because I have to, Shepard. Look, I can't do this through the door."

"Then don't do it at all." A jolt of resentment threatened to push past the raw lump in her throat.

There was a bang, like a frustrated boot or fist on the door. Then the tapping of a talon rasped briefly before he continued, soft as a shower of sand dropping into an open palm. EDI boosted the channel, and Shepard heard the white-noise hiss of the quiet alcove clinging to Garrus' voice.

"What you said today. It's not true. I haven't turned my back on you. And, I'm not going anywhere. Nothing is perfect. We're not perfect. But, together, we've always been closer to it than I . . .ever thought was possible." He finished with an exasperated sigh.

Her head rolled against the door. If there were more tears to be had - prettier ones, filled with joy - behind this fresh wave of pain in her eyes, they refused to come. Silence muffled her throat. He went on, and Shepard imagined him nodding his head the way he used to do, out in the hallway in front of C-Sec, arms spread wide as if to say This is the job. Let's get to it.

"So, if we're going to walk into certain death together, I don't want there to be any more secrets. That's never been our style, and I don't see any reason to start now."

She caressed the cold metal. This piece of safety had seemed so necessary. But, she didn't feel like being barricaded against herself any longer. Sometimes things rang truer with the safety off. She reached for the console and opened the door, surprising Garrus with the sudden movement. And then she surprised him again when she put her arms around his middle and hugged him. He was still wearing his armor, but it didn't matter. She squeezed the life out of him until he put his stunned arms around her shoulders and hugged her right back. His heart beat like a wild thing in flight behind all that armor and plating, and she pressed her ear to it. The long arms slid further around her back, pulling her tight. They stayed that way, locked together silently, until she released him. His talons moved to her shoulders and plucked at the oversized pajama top.

"Spirits, Shepard, what are you wearing?"

She laughed, swiping at her tears.

"Too informal? I think I can pass it off as 'office-casual.'"

Everything they had said, all the important things they needed to say, and all he could do was touch her shoulders over and over, sliding his rough palms over the silk. Shepard held still, waiting for him to speak, and then realized it wasn't in him to override her. He only lingered close, hands still on her, and took her in.

"I'm sorry for today," she said, catching him with her serious, amber gaze. "It was wrong to lash out at you. You have every right to your confusion. And you have every right to ask about Ash. To be angry." Still, his hands remained on her shoulders. She didn't know how else to approach something so bare. Being close to him now after trying to hurt him was sweet and sort of terrifying.

"No, I don't. You had to make a decision that I can't even fathom." She warmed beneath his talons, silk bunching under his firm grip. "So, for my part, I'm sorry about Sidonis. You did exactly what I needed you to do, what I always need from you, and instead of thanking you I threw it in your face."

Standing in the shadowy alcove, her heart playing some halting staccato to fill the silence, Shepard felt relief slip under her fear and whisk it away. He wasn't going anywhere. He wanted to be right where he was. Her little voice, the better demon in her, pointed out that right where he was . . . was touching her, and letting her touch him. And, this new thing didn't scare her anymore. Knowing that was as much a balm to the wounds they had inflicted upon one another as the apologies themselves. Shepard nodded and took a deep breath.

"Can this part be over now?"

"I think so, yeah."

Though it seemed to pain him to do so, he let his arms fall. But neither moved. She just looked at him, eyes searching, brows drawn together. Moving over his face, from his fringe to his mandibles, she reassessed Garrus and hoped he could do the same of his Commander. Then she smiled, almost starting to laugh at herself, and was rewarded with a knowing tremor from his mandibles. Whatever might happen in the next few minutes, they were as equally unprepared for it as they were unwilling to just shake hands and walk away

She took his hands and put them around her waist. Then she looped her arms around his collar and hugged him close to her. Unlike before, he did not hesitate to embrace her, silk sliding beneath his talons. The sinuous, muscular length of her body sighed against him, and her right hand reached for the back of his head, fingernails scratching the soft hide and tracing his visor. Whatever unspoken urge she acted upon, the decisions flowed from somewhere south of her brain and that suited her just fine. He wasn't resisting. She pulled on him until his face lay beside hers and let her head lean against his, eyes drifting shut.

"Shepard. I don't know what to do here." He breathed out, rustling the flaming waves falling behind her ear. He breathed in, and she let herself be open to what he must have found there; the smell her own hair, fresh like water, and something green, alive. To her astonishment, he nuzzled closer, finding the juncture of her neck and shoulder, secreted behind her hair, and let his bandaged mandible flutter there. Silk shifted as his arms circled tighter. A little enthralled, she spoke across the side of his face.

"Yes you do."

"Maybe." His voice rumbled down the back of her neck to her spine, and she broke out in gooseflesh. The skin that had warmed beneath silk, beneath rough palms, gave an involuntary shudder. He stopped instantly, pulling away to seek her face, though she remained in his arms.

"Are you okay?" he cast worried eyes across her face, her shoulders, and Shepard shivered again when he lingered on the deep V of her pajama top. "Did I-?"

"I am very happy." She murmured and blinked slowly, feeling tipsy as blood rushed to reawakened parts of her new body. More than anything, she hoped Garrus could put his head down, and roll with this lovely absurdity. He wanted to. He gave away his appreciation for her as clearly as he did for all the exceedingly rare things in his life he cherished. The Commander hoped he could just pick up her lead, find the target, and let go.

Garrus gave a smirk and a nod. Still, his plated hands remained on her, and cradled her back firmly.

"Well, that's good. Your happiness means a lot to me. But, um, I'm not going to pretend I have any clue what just happened." He was teasing her, working through his shock in an achingly familiar way. For her, and for Garrus, teasing was a good thing.

"Go on and take a stab at it." A laugh bubbled up in her, quick and husky, and the turian gasped, pulling her tighter. Shepard's bare toes left the floor as his face pressed to the side of her temple.

She continued to hold the back of his head, making lazy circles with her fingernails. He closed his eyes, clearly needing a moment. But she wasn't about to let him go. She felt marvelous. He pulled back again and shook his head.

"All this time. We could have been doing this instead of drills and inventory and calibrations?"

"I don't know, could we?" She asked in earnest. Because he was still joking instead of affirming her move on him. Though, he didn't seem revolted by the idea of touching her. Quite the contrary, she was happy to discover.

"Yes! With you? Definitely."

An approving rumble followed this, and he squeezed her. She blushed like a damned teenager. She was a Spectre, for Pete's sake! She had survived the Blitz, killed a Thresher Maw, and saved the Citadel. Yet here she was turning to mush when a turian even suggested he might find her attractive. Not just any turian, though. This was Garrus in her arms, holding her, and looking at her like she was crazy but definitely not letting her go out of disinterest or disgust.

"Garrus, I'm sorry if this is weird for you." She said, trying not to grin like an idiot.

"I will say . . .it's not as weird as I thought." He let his fingers roam over her back, careful not to shred the silk, and watched her eyes close. A contented sound escaped her, and he nosed at her jaw, pushing and nuzzling, smelling the warm skin. In return, making a guess, she trailed her fingernails higher up under his fringe. He groaned into her throat…

It was better, sweeter, than Shepard felt she deserved. But the reality of standing outside her quarters, pawing at each other like adolescents, eventually dawned on them both. Garrus shook his head.

"You know, I'd rather cut off my own arm than stop this right now. Please know that. I just . . ."

"Hey, I get it. No harm done." She backed off, slowly extricating herself from him. But it was so much harder than she expected. Without her to touch, his arms seemed lost, and they dropped by his sides. Shepard hugged her elbows and gave him a stern look. "Next time, don't wear armor."

The sheer shock that blazed across his face was enough to make her laugh. When he recovered, he grabbed her hand. Shepard thrilled at the ease of it, and that he could take to this as adeptly as any skill he cared about.

"I don't want to screw this up. But we don't have a lot of time to waste getting everything just right."

"I know. Just do me a favor and don't worry so much. Get used to the idea; the rest will work itself out." Her free hand came to a spot on his armor just over his heart, and they both looked down at it, as they had at the start of the day, seeing the gesture in a new light. Garrus chuckled, his rich voice making Shepard want to close her eyes and curl up with it.

"Yeeeah. You say that like I'll be able to think about anything else."

She squeezed his hand, reassuring. When there didn't seem to be anything else they could say, and staring at each other grew a little strange, she turned to her room. But, he pulled her back and hugged her one last time, tucking her head under his chin. It made her face bloom red again, pressed against his armor.

"Goodnight, Shepard."

"Goodnight. Sleep well."

They separated, and he watched her bare feet, flashing beneath the silk pants, carry her back to her quarters. The door closed over her smiling face, and Garrus scratched his head in the quiet alcove. With some monumental effort, he could stop thinking of the fingers under his fringe, and the color of her hair on blue silk. He could even, at some point, stop thinking of the liquid, v-shape delving deeply over her chest.

What he would not be able to do was stop hearing the words, ones he never knew he'd been waiting to hear, and the open hunger in her laugh.

So, sleep? Not a chance.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birds and the bees.

Omnia mutantur; nihil interit.

_All things are changed; nothing dies._

Ovid

 _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She never realized how the Normandy buzzed just before the start of the day.  Granted, the crew rotated endlessly, so there was never a true emptiness to any deck of the ship at any one time.  But in the oh six hundred or so, Shepard could swear the quiet atmosphere of the night switched over to a gradual hum.  It built around her as she waited outside the Comm.  And, necessarily, she was sensitive to the filtering voices and the movement of people this morning.

Garrus would be standing on the holo-pad inside.  Likely Miranda was beside him, nodding and interjecting when the Illusive Man requested it of her.  All of that was easy to picture.  Shepard wasn’t a great storyteller, and she had little creative instinct, but it was easy enough to imagine how Garrus would try to explain what happened.  She could let herself worry about it, train her eyes on the door and gnaw at the pulp of her cuticle when Kelly wasn’t peeking in to check on her.  Or, she could accept that she and Garrus had faced worse things than the distant wrath of some chain-smoking silhouette of a benefactor. 

That he had to face it alone, before she had a chance to charge in ahead of him and clear a path, gave Shepard more anxiety than it probably should have.  He would be fine.  For the third time in a half an hour, Shepard left the Comm door and paced.  She wandered too close to the Armory, and its door whisked open.  There she found Thane bent over the center table.  He blinked at her, silent, and Shepard felt the automatic clench of her shame pull her shoulders down.

But he, too, seemed to be a little caught-out, and Shepard realized it was because Jacob wasn’t there.  The drell was stealing a few valuable moments for himself before the Cerberus officer went on duty.  Thane put the pieces of his rifle down and let his hands fall to their normal place at his back.

“Commander.” 

“Thane.”

She quirked her mouth, willing it to form an apology with her voice.  Something uttered out loud had to mean more to a drell than a letter.  When she took too long, he rumbled a little and came around the table. 

“Your message to the squad.  It was appreciated.”  He began with an almost apologetic tone of his own, and she couldn’t help but remember how he had looked crammed into the maintenance shaft.  That he would have no idea why she was suddenly smiling did not deter Shepard.

“Well, I can’t say it enough.  I’m sorry.  It was the dumbest thing I’ve done since. . .”  A sourness tugged at her lips.  “What day is it?”

Thane took her meaning, but he didn’t return her smile.  He did move a bit closer, though, and leaned on the edge of the table.  It was a small thing, but it made her feel better, as did the deep trill of his observations.

“You were not alone.  You should not feel as if you bear the entire weight of the incident on your own.” 

“I’m responsible, at the end of the day, for everything that happens aboard this ship.”  Shepard looked at the toes of her boots, and crossed her arms.  “But no, I don’t feel like this is all my fault.”

As if someone might be listening -- or perhaps to simply check, yet again, to see if Miranda and the Illusive Man were done questioning her sniper -- she looked over her shoulder at the door. 

“You were right.  About Garrus.”

“I was right.”  He nodded, and Shepard wasn’t sure if a drell could look self-satisfied.  But he achieved it anyway.  It wasn’t as warm and comfortable as sitting in Life Support with some tea and the steady whoom of the drive core, but Shepard took her dubious counselor any way she could get him.

“Yes.  So, maybe you’re the one to blame for all this.  Putting ideas in my head.” When he looked a little nonplussed, she fought the urge to roll her eyes.  “That’s my way of saying thank you.”

“I can accept that.” But before they could continue, she heard the Comm. door open in the hallway.  Garrus filled her mind.  She had been so concerned about what to say to the Illusive Man that she neglected to think of how to approach the turian.  Even after the evening’s lovely surprise ending, it wouldn’t be any easier to form something approaching coherent thought for him.  Shepard sucked the flesh of her cheek, the balls of her feet twitching to run, and Thane inclined his head to her.  “Go.  And I hope it won’t be as difficult as you fear.”

“Oh, it’ll be everything I deserve and more, I’m sure.”  She sighed and her thumbnail crept between her teeth again before she was even through the door.

The Armory closed behind her, and Shepard found Garrus in the hall outside the Comm.  And just as she imagined, he looked frustrated and a little surprised as soon as he saw her.  What she hadn’t been able to anticipate was the warmth spreading in her chest upon catching sight of him, and how it made everything else, all the brittle words waiting for her on the holopad, feel like a waste of energy.

“Should I ask how it went?” She offered.

He wore his armor despite the early hour (she could hardly blame him for needing it), and he scrubbed at his forehead with gloved talons.  Shepard didn’t let the space between them linger, though she crossed the hallway unsure of whether or not to touch him.  Garrus looked over her shoulder at the Comm. door, but seemed to find her face more comforting.

“It wasn’t the best debrief I’ve ever had.  Spirits, is it too early for a drink?”

Happily, the relief that transformed him when she stepped close reminded her of all the things that were open to them, scary and thrilling as they might be, and she pushed her hands into his.

“Is that an invitation?” Her voice dropped a little which made his talons tighten around her palms.   The sensation left her thinking of Sidonis, and the way the bones of his wrist had felt under her fingers.  Shepard filed it away, wary of greater tensions waiting behind the image of the haunted turian.

“I suppose it could be.  Now.”  He nodded, looking around the empty hallway before lifting her fingers and threading them with his. “That sounds. . .kind of great, actually.”

If she smiled any broader, Shepard thought her cheeks would stick that way.  Miranda was waiting.  The Illusive Man was waiting.  And she found little reason to care about any of it when Garrus gave a tentative tug to bring her nearer.  The Commander took a deep breath and put her arms low around his back.

The turian did the same, surprising her.  And Shepard found that staring at each other wasn’t exactly the exercise in awkwardness she feared it would be. 

“I don’t know about you, but I really need to shoot something.” She murmured, and watched the instant tremor of his mandibles.

“You took the words right out of my mouth.  What did you have in mind?”  He exhaled, relaxing his hold on her.

“Varren.  The odd merc, most likely.”  Her hand moved lightly over his armor, and Shepard thought perhaps she’d reached the end of what little skill she had for romance. She had no idea what to do with him.  It was too quiet in the empty corridor, too simple, and he looked at her with an expectation she could only meet with trepidation. They knew so little about how to touch each other that, apart the important step of just knowing that they wanted to, and it frustrated her to fly so blind. Beyond Garrus’ shoulder lay the door to the lab, and within it the sole inhabitant of the ship that might be able to help her if she knew how to ask.  It was an unscheduled stop on the day’s tour of discomfort, and Shepard closed her eyes against it.  Garrus released her.

For all their ignorance of each other, they still knew how to move together in combat, and that was enough to give her confidence a boost.  “We’re headed to Pragia as a favor to Jack.”

“Count me in.”  The heft and assurance crept back into his voice, and they separated as Shepard looked at the Comm. door again.  Before it opened, he leaned into her ear, and squeezed her shoulder.

“You’ll do fine.  You were always better at this stuff than me.”

It gave her a shiver, and Shepard couldn’t help picturing Garrus as he might be in private, with plenty of time and better things to whisper into her ear. The Comm. door whisked open, then closed over his retreating figure, and Shepard let the caress of his voice carry her onto the holopad.  There, even Miranda’s crossed arms and hooded expression couldn’t shoo away her renewed spirits.

“Commander.”  The operative addressed Shepard coolly, but there was a surprising lack of real threat behind it.

They turned and gave their attention to the shadowy image of the man in front of them.  The Illusive Man bounced the end of his foot slightly, crossed at the knee, and exhaled a plume of smoke.

“I have no questions for you, Shepard.  I don’t really need anything from you except your promise that whatever is going on with Vakarian is resolved as of now, and won’t affect the mission.”  He tapped his cigarette and brought it to his lips, speaking again only when he’d taken a silent drag.  “Nothing else matters.  I don’t think I need to repeat that.”

The Commander shook her head, looking at Miranda.  “No questions?  That doesn’t seem like you.  Either of you.” She put her hands on her hips, relieved to be off the hook, but unsure of the ultimate game at work here.  It was Cerberus, after all.  Shepard doubted The Illusive Man had anything _but_ questions for her.  Miranda had made a point of reporting the incident, surely between the two of them there had to be a litany of reprimands and demands of explanation.

“We don’t have much choice, Commander.  Vakarian claims the two of you were only sparring.”  He exhaled again, irritation crawling across the folksy timbre of his voice.  “And your squad all appear to have selective amnesia.”

At this, Shepard whipped her head around to look at Miranda.  But the woman kept her reserve.  The thought of this united front of loyalty from her squad gave the Commander a deep twinge of pride.  It was a feeling she never realized she missed.  Mordin, Kasumi, Thane and Zaeed, even Jacob, it seemed all of them had pursed their lips and shrugged their shoulders at Miranda’s inquisition.  But the operative herself appeared to have given no testimony, either.  And few things could have surprised the Commander more.  Miranda glanced over at Shepard and sighed.

“The ship’s video feed from the Crew Deck is incomplete, as well.”  The dark-haired woman arched an eyebrow, but her annoyance was as false as her initial, cold greeting had been.  “EDI claims she was running diagnostics during the incident, and the program caused an audio glitch.  The video has no sound recording.” 

As it had the night before in her cabin, the urge to hug EDI overwhelmed her.

As if to punctuate her disgust, Miranda waved her hand at the AI’s console, and went back to crossing her arms. What must that video look like?  The Commander suppressed a shudder at the memory of Garrus flying down the corridor.  She didn’t need a particularly healthy imagination to decide that the absence of sound on that footage was a good thing. After a long pause, one Shepard had little trouble settling into, The Illusive Man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

“So, Shepard, do I have your word?  Is this behind you?”

_Not even remotely_.  She thought of her pajamas, and the texture of Garrus beneath her fingers, and allowed herself the pleasure of a smile that hid behind her usual debriefing face.

“Yes, I can assure you that the Vakarian situation is under control.”

The silhouette stared at her for a while, puffs of smoke and the blink of glowing, cybernetic eyes her only indication that the comm. link hadn’t frozen.  Finally, he huffed, leaned back, and tapped the arm of his chair, severing the connection.  Shepard dropped her arms and followed Miranda off the holopad.

“Is it?”

“What?”  The Commander paused on her way to the exit, her heart thumping and feet twitching to be free of the room.

“Are you. . .”

“We’re good.”  Shepard nodded, thinking of the many ways in which her statement was the absolute truth, and the simplest kind of guidance both she and Garrus needed.  It also tugged at the burgeoning anxiety that might find its resolution in the lab next door.  She looked back at Miranda as she started again toward the hall, and the lab, and the new torture that she was about to request for herself.

“Are _we_ good?”

“Of course, Commander.” Miranda’s eyes blinked their version of kindness at Shepard.

And for once, she believed the operative without a second guess.

 __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Shepard left the Comm., turned in the hall, proceeded through the lab door, and promptly lost her nerve.  Mordin was there, bent over his table, projecting not a single bit of the irritation or judgment she expected after the previous night.  All the same, the Commander’s voice refused to clamber out of her throat.  Thankfully, the salarian looked up and waved her over.

 “Shepard?”  He put his datapad down and tapped his long fingers on the table.

“I need your . . .well, your expertise.”  She slid fully into the lab area, and glanced around at Mordin’s research detritus, but she found no obvious conversation starters among the glass tubes and the strange, translucent imagery projected on his various screens.  This didn’t have to be awkward, but she seemed intent on proving herself wrong.  Getting through it meant an easier path toward touching Garrus with some confidence.  But getting through it meant giving voice to a fragile thing; one over which she found herself fiercely protective.  Mordin sniffed, and she turned her attention back to him.

“First of all, I’m sorry about what happened on the crew deck last night.”  Her fingers fluttered beside her legs.  “There are a million things that led up to it, but only one real reason for me to act the way I did.”

The doctor raised his lumpy brows.

“Stress reactions different for different species. Your response extreme, but not uncommon.”  He came around the table, arms clasped behind him as he looked at the floor.  Shepard was accustomed to his need to have the workspace between himself and his visitors.  Without all that science between them, she was reminded to think of him as a soldier and a tentative friend.

“Stress. Well, that’s one way of putting it.” She smiled at the salarian, and he nodded.  One thing she would always appreciate about him, Shepard thought, was that the doctor did not shuffle or shift when he was listening.  He was perfectly calm, open, and it put her at ease.  She traced a hand along the edge of his worktable.

“Mordin, I can’t apologize enough.  Not just for what happened in the Mess, but for what I said on Tuchanka.  My issues shouldn’t bleed over into yours, and I wanted to say that before I ask for your help with this.”

He pursed his wide mouth and blinked.

“Never took it personally, Shepard.  Still, appreciate the sentiment.  Discussing the genophage is always an ethical battlefield.”  His posture shifted to reflect the kind of respect he could only offer to someone who might have killed as many innocents as he had himself. “Prefer to do so with an actual soldier any day.”

The words warmed her, as only a shared regret between veterans can, and she didn’t hide her obvious affection.  Still, her heart skittered in her chest.  Mordin wouldn’t fuss over a couple of crew members needing some guidance, would he?  Shepared could imagine the scientist reacting in any number of exaggerated ways.  Perhaps it wasn’t too much to hope that he would be gracious in the execution of the unusual request she was about to unload on him. She crossed her arms, deciding to proceed with the awkward part.

“Mordin, I need anything you can give me for . . .intimacy with a turian.”

No shocked gasp tripped out behind her confession. No laughter ensued (though she hadn’t expected that, truly). And, most heartening of all, Mordin betrayed no smugness in the face of her discomfort. The scientist simply inhaled, in his way, and drew a long finger up under his chin in contemplation.

“Expected as much. For a few moments in the kitchen I thought Vakarian might be in danger. Attributed argument to mission failure, old wounds, etcetera. But, no. So clear now. Perfectly natural.”

The tumult of words were supposed to make her feel better, but when his arm came up, amber display already flickering to life, Shepard saw the unraveling of her tiny spark of happiness. 

Here, she lost the power to control her nerves, and began pacing under Mordin’s steady, black-eyed stare and the dance of his fingers in the air.  In her mind, the turian’s plated hands ghosted on her shoulders, heavy on silk.  Everything was out.  She had uttered a dozen words, and suddenly the ship’s resident genius was drawn into something she and Garrus barely comprehended themselves.  Whatever simple approval the sniper had shown, Shepard was still concerned that he did it solely to please her.  His ideals, his skills, and his place in the world were all wrapped up in her.  What if that was all his interest amounted to?  Did he see it as just another command?  Still, if they were pressing forward, Solus had been the right call.  And now there was no un-ringing _that_ bell.  He began to speak, and she held up her hands.

“Thank you for understanding.”  The hands bunched into frustrated little fists.  “But here’s the thing. I don’t . . .please don’t approach Garrus.”

“Will be difficult to achieve certain things without his participation.” Mordin smiled at her, showing a little swagger with his joke. She nodded, accepting his jab at her with poise. Shepard rubbed her forehead.

“What I mean is that I need some time.  So, just wait.”  She closed her eyes as he huffed, snapping off his display.  Her voice gained a measure of the Commander’s weight, and she held him with a hard gaze.  “Mordin. I know you. I know you will feel it necessary to call on him and offer similar advice. As your . . . as your friend, I’m asking you not to do that.” 

The doctor crossed his arms over that bowed, salarian chest and cocked his head at her.  His disapproval was so clear she could almost taste it.  Shepard held his eyes, cheeks burning, though she mostly wanted to stare at her boots.  But, his words were gentler than she probably deserved.

“Don’t understand. Garrus feels the same way toward you. So clear.”  Mordin came closer, drumming his fingers on his upper arms.  If it was clear to the scientist, Shepard thought grimly, the rest of the crew would likely not be far behind.  Until she knew Garrus felt something real, it would be unnerving to have it become part of ship-wide gossip.  And if it exploded in their faces?  Whatever transpired between equally-ranked soldiers on a turian ship, sparring and late-night tie-breakers notwithstanding, this was far from that.  This was Cerberus, and a Normandy full of strangers.  This was his last friend in the galaxy, his Commander, suddenly offering him something extraordinary and difficult.  It all confirmed her decision to ask for the doctor’s discretion.

Shepard was quiet, staring too long into the back of the console display on his table, so Mordin continued.  “Part of my duty is to provide help, stability for the team. Health concerns always a priority.”

“Is Garrus unhealthy?”  Her voice fell lower.  Not once had she considered _that_.

Mordin inhaled, and brought up his omni-tool.

“Without breaking confidentiality . . .No, he is in perfect health.”

“Am I unhealthy?”

When he shook his pronged head, she folded her arms.

“So let us handle this privately.”  Shepard thought of the woman she had been, trying to imagine her taking the turian’s hand, perhaps publicly, and not caring about the consequences.  That person still slithered in her muscles, and would always live in some portion of her mind.  She must have cared for Garrus, too.  Neither woman would watch him struggle on her behalf, Shepard decided. “It’s intimidating enough, I think, without a third party making the awkwardness sort of unbearable.  Can you appreciate that much?”

He nodded succinctly, relenting in the face of her protective nature, and Shepard finally relaxed. She leaned a hip against his table, twirling a slender, pipette between her fingers.  The tiny trembling in her shoulders, built by the nervousness of her request, began to recede.

“Apart from the dizzying amount things I don’t know about the, uh, basics,” she confessed, swallowing any other descriptions that built on her tongue, “I am really at a loss when it comes to cultural matters.”

“Ah, not just physical education? You want information on social cues, body language. Turian sexual culture not so complex. Not so different from humans, actually. Not sure how much would be helpful. But I can try.”

The fact that she didn’t violently twitch at the word _sexual_ gave Shepard a small flush of pride.  He tapped away, lips pursed again.  She sighed.

“Anything, Mordin.”

He nodded and began pacing a little bit in the space between his table and the wall.  It was a tell if the Commander had ever seen one.  Mordin paced during any and all diatribes. The part Shepard had been dreading came from him in a flood of tight, quick language and the sway of his lean figure.

“Very important _not_ to ingest turian tissue, Shepard. Must stress this. Not sure how your body will react. Can offer interspecies-specific antihistamine to offset allergic reaction. Even so. Perhaps implants, skin weave, cybernetics will help with this? Unknown. Would like a report, if possible. Really, Shepard, I feel it’s necessary to offer Garrus information.”

She hoped that the cringe she tried to quell had not actually seeped out as he spoke.  The doctor opened his display again, and Shepard responded more harshly than she intended.

“No.” The pipette dropped to his worktable, and she placed her hand over it to stop it from rolling. 

“He deserves a chance to learn about you.”  The salarian was quiet, his voice more tender than she had ever heard.  Above that, he was right, and Shepard knew it. 

There was no doubt in her mind that Garrus would master whatever was thrown at him . . .including herself.  But she would not have their first, tentative steps into a relationship (yes, she supposed that was fair) be tracked, recorded and chaperoned by anyone else.  If there was critical, physical information to be shared with her sniper, Shepard was prepared to see herself divulging it over the salarian.  Mordin was well-meaning; he wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t matter to her.

“I’ve known Garrus a long time. He’s never been with a human before, but he’s no stranger to asari.”  _We’ll be fine_ , she meant to say, _we’re adults, and we can handle this._   Before it slipped from her lips, Shepard would have said it was forgotten.  It was something in the foggy timeline between the stinking wreckage of Sovereign and the quiet of Terminus.  Shore leave on Illium.  Where the Commander she had been had stumbled down the hallway of their hotel, blissfully tipsy with Liara trailing behind her, all hands.  They had crowded together in a dark alcove, hiding and snickering, and watched Garrus lead an asari consort to his suite.  With not a little jealous heat filling her scars from her neck to her cheeks, Shepard thought of his hand on the asari’s waist, and the sound of unintelligible murmurs in his rich voice, then nothing so loud as the clicking of the door as it shut behind them. 

The salarian gave her a brief scowl.  It was a reprimand for her generalization on such an important issue.

“Humans and asari very similar, but also very different. Let me-“

“No. It’s close enough. Trust me.”  A sad smile crept across her face.  Liara’s touch, her infectious smile, filtered up from the mess of her heart.  “That much I can be certain of. The rest we’ll figure out on our own.”

Mordin blinked his double lids. He pointed at her suddenly, and Shepard flinched.

“You’ve been thinking about this. Planning it? Since when?"

She cocked her head at him and took a breath. Planning? She thought not, but perhaps that little voice, sheepish and yet defiant, had pressed her toward the thing she needed most.  It had all but drowned the most careful things she built around Garrus and her squad.  And it hadn’t even reached its high-water mark.

“No, I never planned this. But, there are only so many reasons to want to kill your best friend. I know myself, Mordin.”  Shepard let a measure of her weariness color her voice.  Though what came next wasn’t an absolute, she felt it keenly enough to say it out loud.  Strangely, it gave her less trouble than asking for the more explicit advice. “And I know how much this means to Garrus.  To both of us.”

At this, Mordin stepped forward and took her by the shoulders.  Stunned, Shepard stared at him as if the salarian had donned an evening gown and a feathered mask.  She let out a brief chuckle at what a picture the two of them must have made standing in the lab, blinking their widest eyes at one another.

“Thought it was only sex. Stress relief. But, no, you’re right. So much emotion boiling over. Can’t _just_ be physical. I see.”  He released her.  It rarely crossed her mind to think of the cool, cocky scientist as a romantic.  But the almost wistful shift of his brow changed this.  He loved music, after all, and debate, and the thrill of battle.  Passion was a virtue few attributed to salarians.  But if anyone understood the importance of timing, it was the short-lived race.  Mordin gave another swift intake of breath.  “Will forward you everything I know immediately. But, we don’t have certain things here. Will need to go back to the Citadel for supplies.”

“Of course. Tell you what: I need to pick up some other items. . .”  Rubbing her forehead again, Shepard thought perhaps after escorting Jack on her personal bombing run shopping might be the kind of truly mundane, civilian activity she needed to distract her.  “I’m making a trip there for clothes, food, stuff like that. Send me a shopping list, and I’ll get it myself.” 

Mordin nodded and finished furiously tapping his omni-tool as he glided back to his comfortable spot behind the worktable.  With Pragia and Jack, and now shopping on the Citadel crowding her mind alongside whatever lay with Mordin’s version of helpfulness, the Commander nodded to herself and turned to leave.

But the doctor cleared his throat behind those elegant fingers, and his earnest voice halted her at the door. 

“Wish you both all the best. Life is so short. So much pain and misery. Happy to see some good things along the way.”

There wasn’t a smile behind her reply, in truth the salarian never seemed to inspire many, but Shepard wondered if he knew just what it was like to have another soul ready to touch you when you needed it, and waiting to catch you at the end of the day.  She hoped so. 

“Thank you.”

 __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

After running through Jack’s plan a third time for good measure (and earning several frustrated growls for her thoroughness), the Commander took the stairs two at a time to get back to the elevator.  The tattooed biotic was amped beyond anything Shepard had ever seen.  Which is to say that Jack was so quiet and so tight, that she very nearly vibrated.  But the bomb was good, and the facility was mostly empty, and Pragia held an appeal for Shepard that went beyond her desire to help.  This would be the first time she dragged Garrus out into a fight where she intended to work up to blowing off some of that steam.

There was just one stop for the Normandy, though, before they could hit the relay for the Nubian Expanse.  On the way to the topmost deck, Shepard sent Joker a request to head to the Citadel.  By the time the elevator delivered her to her quarters, it was barely oh nine-hundred.

Shepard sat in bed with her terminal in her lap and acknowledged, once and for all, two things she had always suspected about the universe: it had a sense of humor, and that sense of humor was as dark and pitiless as a black hole. Two messages awaited her. The first was from Mordin, with copious files attached. And, the second was from Liara, asking Shepard to meet her at her apartment on Illium. 

One thing at a time.

Within the body of his message, Mordin had written down the few items she would need from the Citadel pharmacy as well as reiterated his stance on ingestion of tissues. On the subject of approaching Garrus, he had simply reassured her that he would not do so unless otherwise instructed. He suggested that until the Citadel items were secured that she come by the Normandy’s lab to pick up the simple compound for chafing he had prepared for her, as well as a general antibiotic and antihistamine. She read his message with an honest heart, gamely pushing past any mortification she threatened to allow herself. This was tougher once she opened the attachments.

She encouraged her mind to reach back and remember every seedy club and bar, every furtive, interspecies groping she’d ever witnessed in her life, and to accept that this was no different, at its core, than any other relationship. Pure idiots did this sort of thing every day. If they could manage it, so could she.

She skipped over the diagrams. If there was a virtue in knowing exactly where she might find the various turian capillaries and gland pathways then she would have to remain, for the moment, artless in that regard. What she needed most came in the second and third attachments, which were articles written about turian sexual history and modern practices, including love and commitment.

Shepard stretched out on her stomach and read the whole thing. Its tone and sensitivity surprised her. Turian and human cultures had evolved along much the same lines; a dominant leader of a group having their pick of mates, fighters, and hunters, from the hierarchical structure of the pack. However, unlike almost all of human history, turian dominance was not solely male. Females routinely led their own packs, chose their mates and fought off rival leaders just as males did. They were almost uniformly as large and powerful as their male counterparts. And, look at that. Shepard’s eyes widened. They had breasts (of a sort), and gave birth. She allowed her brain to envision Garrus as a youthful turian, one who looked at females as equals and leaders, and felt creaky doors to another world open up in her view.  Yes, she had known turians for as many years as she had been fighting, but she’d never considered their society, as a whole, with such interest before.

Skipping ahead to matters more closely associated to herself she found, in the second section of the article, a breakdown of common sexual signifiers and erotic areas. Things she had gathered over the years were confirmed or disregarded here. Fringe? Very important. As were a decently flared set of hips, a small waist, and a pleasing collar. All-in-all, it was not terribly different from any human man’s laundry list of ideal femininity. Except in the case of turians, well, the males were under the same scrutiny.  Elbow and leg spurs? Not especially erogenous, except in fetish culture.

Moving on, she was unsurprised to find a related article devoted entirely to sounds. As Thane had said, these indicated all sorts of interesting things to other turians. She hung her head a little at this. These were things she would never hear and could not hope to duplicate. As a master of weaponry, combat, and biotic elements, it galled her to be outside the proverbial loop on that.

Her mind struggled to catalog this new information, shaking out the bits she’d never really need, and holding onto things she deemed too important to forget. Turians showed affection and attraction in so many subtle ways. Gazing at or stroking the aforementioned fringe and/or waist. Also, not unlike humans, they held hands and embraced. Shepard realized she had executed so much of this last night, and again this morning, and had never known it. Foreheads! Who knew? Touching inside the collar or under the plates. Scratching. Oh, lord.  The vivid, sublime memory of scratching his back before the Sidonis mission hit Shepard like a shockwave.  Garrus had groaned, hummed even.  And he’d been half-naked.  She was ignorant about the meaning of it, but _he_ wasn’t.  The fact that he’d asked for it suddenly made her grin.  Her hands went to her throat, stroking her skin as she recalled every touch she might have given Garrus in innocence, and the ones she intended to give with renewed purpose.

She checked the clock. Almost two hours had passed since she retreated to her cabin. Fortunately, there was nothing to be late for today. No other mission prep, no meetings, no equipment tests or reports to make. Shepard scrubbed her hands over her face and through her hair. Only one portion of Mordin’s message remained to be explored. The vids.

In as many years as she’d lived in close quarters with men, Shepard always accepted, but never quite understood, the compulsion for porn. As she tilted her head and watched the first video she nearly laughed out loud. If only her squad mates could see her now. And, it was certainly enlightening, if a little unimaginative.

The woman was petite, at least in comparison to her much larger partner, and she moved her small hands like vicious little machines over the turian’s abdominal plates, sliding her fingers between them, and lower over the protective groin plates. As things progressed in a straightforward, oral fashion, Shepard bit her lip. A seriously strange feeling of pride swept through her, imbuing her with a sensual flush. She may be deaf to those little sounds, but there were things she could do that no turian female would ever be able to. The couple onscreen continued as Shepard smiled to herself in this new knowledge. This thought alone was enough to bolster her confidence, and she was about to stop the vid when the ecstatic blonde let out an eye-watering squeal. The Commander blinked and put a hand to her mouth. His _tongue_.

“Oh, my God.” Shepard mumbled into her hand, watching the long, lithe muscle. Now she really felt like a degenerate. A totally transfixed degenerate. She stopped the vid, closed the terminal and flopped over on her bed, palms pressed against her eyes. Idiots do this every day, she reminded herself. The thought of Garrus doing that to her, though, gave her an intense, rosy feeling throughout. A soft whine of frustration escaped her, and Shepard gnawed on her thumbnail. She winced at its unyielding quality against her teeth. But, it was a good reminder of her body’s new strength, and she pulled her hand away to look at it. A little from memory, and a little from fantasy, she imagined that hand and those fingers sliding beneath heavy plates, scraping along the soft hide, wrapping around . . .her eyes squeezed shut as tiny jolts of heat made themselves at home between her legs. Jesus, she needed to get to the Citadel.

She changed into civies, clawed at her hair until it looked decent and bolted from her room as if it were on fire.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dress, a meal, and comfort in other forms.

Dum spiro, spero.

 _While I breathe, I hope._

Cicero

 ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“I brought you along because you said I needed your help.” Shepard crossed her arms and strolled behind Kasumi as the little thief led them through the Presidium’s nicer shopping district. Beside her, Tali gave the faintest hum, following along with the music drifting out of a nearby boutique.  The smaller of the two hooded figures darted into the trendy shop, and stood next to a mannequin wearing a bikini.  She held out a thumbs-up, and Shepard bit the inside of her cheek.  “So far your version of helping is a little lackluster.”

“Come on. Think outside the uniform, Shep. There are things that happen in the world that might require a bathing suit, or a pair of heels. Or, both at once.” Kasumi murmured down at the mannequin’s stilettos.

The Commander was sure that the thief’s eyebrows were waggling beneath her hood. Moving into the boutique, Tali sighed heavily.

“You don’t know how lucky you are. Enviro-suits aren’t exactly the height of fashion. If I could wear any of this stuff I would do it in a heartbeat.”  She fingered the gauzy shift covering the bathing suit.

“I like your suit.”  Shepard’s eyes roamed over the embroidered headscarf, and the elegant neckpiece stretching below Tali’s mask.  This was different, more refined, than the suit she remembered.  The quarian followed Kasumi further into the shop, and Shepard appreciated how unique she seemed among the Citadel fashions.  Still, Tali was right; it wasn’t as if she had a choice.

“Okay, I’ll show you some things to try on, and I promise to be serious and respectful,” offered the husky voice from behind racks of clothing.

Shepard smirked as she rounded a display and saw Kasumi. The thief had added a giant, floppy sunhat to the top of her shrouded head.

“No fashion shows. No changing rooms. Help me pick a couple of things, and I’ll just buy them.” She stepped between the racks, touching things with no real interest, and called after Kasumi as she whisked through the store. “And, absolutely no more Allison Gunn costumes.”

The thief was as good as her word. She made short work of picking out a half dozen outfits and presenting them to Tali and Shepard. The Commander leaned against the sales counter and dismissed half of them outright for being too short, too tight, or too _not her_. The remaining selections were tasteful, and Shepard felt a sad twinge of normalcy at the idea of being able to wear any of them in the coming months. Spotting an eye-catching color, she pulled out one of Kasumi’s more formal choices.  It was a long dress, with some rather revealing features, and she raised her eyebrows at thief.

“Why this one?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”  The deep purple paint stretched under Kasumi’s grin.

“No.”  Shepard turned the dress over in her hands.  It was certainly a stunning color, and certainly not one she would have picked for herself.

“Put it on. I promise I won’t make you try on a single other thing. Just see how it looks on you and then you can decide if bringing me along was the right call.”  Kasumi planted her fists on her hips and waited.

Tali fingered the garment and looked up at her Commander. The masked face nodded at Kasumi, and Shepard thought she heard a ghost of a laugh. Rolling her eyes at their open conspiracy of fashion, Shepard ducked into a fitting room with the improbable dress. Minutes later, standing alone in the cramped space, she put her hands on her bare hips and had to admit . . .the woman had a knack for this. Shepard sucked a breath, hand over her stomach, and stepped out of the fitting room. A three-fingered glove snatched her wrist and pulled her to stand in front of a huge mirror at the back of the boutique. Flanked by her grinning squad mates, Shepard stared at herself and nodded with obvious appreciation.

The floor-length dress was a dizzying, gorgeous shade of red, graduating from bright carmine at the shoulders to deep, blood red at the hem. It had long sleeves, but bare shoulders, and a low, square neckline. But, the real show-stopper was the open waist. The garment swooped from the bodice to two open semi-circles on either side of her torso. These left her sides bare from just below her ribs to just above her hips. A continuous, hourglass strip of slinky fabric connected the top half to the bottom, which clung like a second skin to the flare of Shepard’s hips before falling in a crimson curtain to the floor. The dress managed to be elegant while effectively giving everyone a tantalizing view of the entire curve of her waist and a good portion of her toned stomach.

“Well, at least my belly-button is covered.” She smiled at Kasumi in the mirror.

“Tell me you hate the way this looks on you. I double-dog dare you.”  The thief and the quarian looked at each other, arms crossed.

“No, I won’t say that.” Even her scars gained a bit of credibility in her eyes for their beauty beneath the dress. Between the pale cadmium of her hair, with its white stripe, and the lacy glow of the scars playing lightly over her body, Shepard thought she looked alluring and a little dangerous. Tali poked at the Commander’s side.

“So, do you think he’ll like it?” She asked innocently.  Shepard didn’t flinch, and she supposed it was a good sign that the thought of showing this part of herself to Garrus made her feel exceptional and bold instead of outright strange.

Her squad mates gave Shepard a moment to decide if she would be offended by their insinuation, or bluster with denial. But she knew them. After breaching the seal of her discretion with Mordin, Shepard was ready to accept that certain things were forever out of her control.  And that, she thought, sliding her fingertips under the fabric, was going to have to be okay.  She knew herself and her crew well enough to see that whatever went on between their Commander and one of their own could never truly be hidden. She had thrown knives at the guy. Of course they noticed.

“Who cares if he likes it?  _I_ like it.  But, yeah. I think he will.” Her mind drifted to any number of reactions Garrus might have. All of them favorable. Fingers skimmed the openness of the dress along her sides, settling on her hips, and she gave her friends a wink. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

Shepard allowed Kasumi to stack several new pairs of shoes on her blossoming mound of purchases before paying and having everything sent to the ship. The three of them moved deeper into the dense Ward, angling toward the largest of the sprawling Citadel food markets. It was laid out along a strip of small city park space and boasted some of the most exotic consumables in the nebula. Shepard faced her companions and fished out two credit chits from her pocket.

“There’s enough here to buy food for an army. Buy anything and everything you can to make everyone happy. Keep in mind we’ve got a drell, an asari, a salarian, a krogan, and a turian to think of.” She passed the chits over to their eager hands. Food had to be the simplest way back into everyone’s good graces, and Shepard could only hope it might dull the sting of their Commander’s temper tantrum. Truthfully, they didn’t have much time for any grander gestures. Tali palmed her chit and Shepard nodded at her. “Get whatever you need, Tali. I want you to feel at home.”

“You are serious?” If Tali was smiling, Shepard dearly wish she could see it.

“As a heart attack.” She a resolute nod.

“Where will you be?” Kasumi floated the chit across her knuckles before making it vanish into thin air.

“None of your business.”

Shepard gave them both a warm smile and turned on her heel, heading out of the market for parts unknown to them. As her feet carried her past the general press of the market and onto the street, she glanced behind her to make sure Kasumi and Tali were out of sight. The street was mostly residential, huge buildings towering over the market and the small park, with boutiques tucked into the street-level entryways. She stepped into a bright shop with a small, neon-green cross symbol over the door. Inside, the pharmacy was blessedly empty, except for the woman behind the counter. She was human, older and kind-looking. She wore bifocals around her neck on a beaded chain and a white lab coat.

As Shepard browsed, the woman nodded and went back to her datapad. There were displays for cosmetics and creams, aisles crammed with basic medical supplies, and a wall full of advertising vids for everything from virility pills to biotic enhancers. Ducking down the last aisle on the left, Shepard found a whole section devoted to sexual health. She dedicated her every nerve to fighting the urge to blush and scamper from the shop like a startled pyjack. Here were condoms for pretty much every race as well as lubricants, and pregnancy and allergy tests. She put a hand to her forehead, rubbing as if it would somehow make the whole process smoother. In her rush, there had been so many things she hadn’t considered. Her omni-tool shimmered to life, and she looked at the list Mordin had given her, comparing the items on the shelf in front of her to the words on her display. When no decent matches made themselves apparent Shepard felt the snarl of worry creep under her skin. But, giving up was simply not an option. She took a steadying breath and went to the counter. The pharmacist looked up and put her datapad aside.

“What can I help you with?”

“I’m looking for . . .um, these things. Do you have them, by any chance?”

Shepard was sure she looked like a dumbstruck colony kid as she held out her omni-tool.  The woman put her bifocals on, leaning over the counter to read Mordin’s list. And then, she smiled. Shepard’s heart swelled a little, and she relaxed. The woman hopped off her stool and came around the counter. She led the Commander back to the aisle-of-embarrassment and bent down low, knees creaking, to pull two things off the bottom shelf.

“You were in the right place. Here . . .and here. The pills I will have to get from the back. They aren’t over-the-counter.”  She looked at Shepard over the top of her glasses. “Did I read Professor Solus’ name?”

“Um, yes.” If she had spoken in flashes like a hanar, Shepard would have been less surprised.

“I worked with him briefly in his clinic on Omega.” The pharmacist took Shepard back to the counter, and then worked her way down the inaccessible portion of the shop.

“Brilliant man. A trifle odd. Normally you would need a prescription, but since I can see he requested them . . .” She trailed off as she came back to the counter and plunked down the bottle. Shepard watched her pull her glasses off.

“How is he doing?” The older woman tilted her head, clasping her hands on the counter.

“Mordin? He’s fine. Great, actually. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Shepard spoke to the pile of sexual paraphernalia on the counter, shaking her head for the sheer surrealism of it.  Solus, it seemed, had a reach even greater than hers in some ways.

“Well, please tell him that Amelia says hello. He’ll remember. I doubt he knows too many others.”  The pharmacist rapped on the counter and turned back to the business of ringing up the sale.

“Of course.”

“Would you like to take these with you or have them sent?” The glasses went back on her plump face as she spoke.

“Do you have a bag?” There was little she could do about the blushing now. But the woman only smiled again and nodded. Shepard quashed the urge to embrace her. She scanned the items, swiped her chit and put everything in an opaque green bag with a pull-tie at the top. As the pharmacist went about these tasks, Shepard’s ear was drawn to the Galactic News channel that played from somewhere behind the counter. And what had sparked her attention was her own name.

 _“Shepard Memorial Plaza on Elysium was voted this year’s hottest wedding location. Under Admiral Hackett’s orders all money raised from wedding fees goes to funds for Alliance veterans . . .”_

The broadcast continued with another story, but Shepard stopped listening.

“Shepard Memorial Plaza?”

Her routine complete, the pharmacist laid the green bag on the counter and followed her customer’s gaze to the news console.

“My daughter was married there. Lovely place. So many restrictions now, though. It’s such a pity.”

“I had no idea.” Shepard knew she was speaking, but she felt so far away. They had memorialized her at the site of the Blitz. But, she was only guessing at that part. Blinking at the pharmacist, she thought of how Elysium had looked the day before Haliat had ruined everything. The fields of grain, the lake, and the mountains beyond. The woman was right. It had been lovely.

“Well, try to get back there if you have the chance.” The woman pulled the tie tightly closed, but didn’t look up.

“Back?”

“Why yes, Commander. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize the savior of the Citadel? Silly girl.” She pushed the bag toward Shepard with a sad sort of smile.

“Oh. Okay, Thanks. Thanks so much.” Not knowing how to respond, she simply took her bag and left, waving vaguely through the closing door as she stepped into the street.

A memorial.

Shepard’s body walked her along the edge of the market all the way to the entrance of the park. But she saw little of anything, only wandered with her green bag bumping softly against her leg. Finally, she found a bench and sat down, because she _had_ to.  Shepard was heavier than she’d been with krogan blood drying on her armor back on Tuchanka.

So, as it had done with all the events and people she had missed in death, time shifted and laid itself just outside of Shepard’s grasp, where Elysium was at once both a simple word and also the birth of a human leviathan. In that word, there breathed a young soldier, a marine, who had been half-drunk and well-laid.  A soldier who crashed through the razor clutch of dry wheat stalks in her bare feet, with someone else’s pistol vibrating in her palm and blood weeping into her eyes.  The marine dove into a lake, beating the scorch of dreadnaught fire from above by a single heart tremor.  As her lungs burned and she pushed at her own buoyancy, the marine seemed to see, on the surface above her, the body of the person she had been only hours before.  Before, when all the combined muscles of duty relaxed for a weekend, floating in a void of reflected stars, enjoying the cool blackness of lakewater and night sky.  It was, of course, only one of many bodies that slowly appeared, crowding into the orange and blue space over her head, where fire met water.  And none of them had been her.

Then, time gave another heave.  And there was a great, beckoning nothingness waiting behind the vid of her life that persisted in replaying only the wounded parts.

Shepard stayed that way for a fair amount of time, letting the bench hold her still enough to complete the ritual of a painful reverie.  It was long enough that Tali and Kasumi came looking for her. They found her with her knees drawn up, staring over them into nothing in particular.

“Shep? You ready to get out of here?”  The thief nudged her knee, soft voice lifting the fog from Shepard’s eyes.

“Huh? Um, yes let’s get back.” She glanced between their concerned faces, fixing her own with something approaching a flippancy she didn’t particularly feel. “I’m fine. I could use a decent dinner, though.”

“It will be more than decent. I think we bought half the market.” Tali held her hand out and Shepard took it, letting the quarian pull her off the bench.

“What’s in your little green bag?” The thief’s eyes darted down to the mysterious new item.  The Commander held the bag steady and leveled Kasumi with a mock-stern gaze.

“None of your business.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Shepard was used to being called a hero. In the general sense of the word, she embodied most heroic traits. With the Blitz beating its oppressive buzz in her brain all day she could scarcely avoid the whole idea of _Hero_.  But, she had never received a hero’s welcome like the one that awaited her at dinner that evening.

A few crew and most of the squad were waiting for her when she finally made an appearance in the dining hall. Gardner clapped her on the back and gave her a tray full of food that she actually recognized. She turned to sit at the table with her squad and they leapt to their feet to give her a standing ovation. Zaeed stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle.

On the table was a splendid array of food, with more than a few specific reminders of home for each squad member. Some things she recognized and some she didn’t. But the most rewarding thing about her dinner that night wasn’t her fresh salad, or her baked potato, or even the startling appearance of crème brulee. The best part was looking across the table and seeing Samara smile down at her dish, the enjoyment of food transforming sorrow and stoicism into pure, youthful grace. The reward was in watching them all laugh, relaxed and giddy at the same time, and that in food they had found something easy and untroubled to talk about.

Her joy was in the way Jacob slid his piece of pie over to Miranda when he caught her looking at it. And in the way that Thane actually joined them for this meal, sharing his thoughts on ramen with Kasumi after she balked at the drell food. Even Grunt gave a satisfied belch, fingers drumming thickly on his expanding stomach.

Beside her, Garrus was admirably calm.  They let their knees fall together under the table, but kept nearly everything else as it had always been; his voice curling around the trigger of a sniper story, her quickness to give the tale its truer colors. She watched him turn to Zaeed and launch into a description of his very first rifle, and remembered the tiny pill in her pocket with a flushed smile.  No one even noticed her take it.  For all her worry, the two of them had side-stepped the publicly awkward part with ease. And, the turian food gave him something to focus on. Shepard knew how much he appreciated things that reminded him of Palaven, even if he never talked about it.

Little by little everyone finished and removed their plates. Little by little they drifted off to their separate corners of the Normandy.  Shepard found herself alone, staring into a half empty glass of brandy and listening to Gardner hum as he cleaned up.  Chakwas hadn’t owed her a bottle, but one found its way into her private stores anyway.  She blinked at the even burn of it on her tongue and suddenly smiled.  Perhaps because the news report had taken some of the wind out of her sails, and the monumental dinner had insinuated itself between her and the exploration of new things, she had nearly forgotten how excited she was to have the option of _not_ being alone at the end of the day. For once.

She rose from the table and made her way down the corridor to the main battery, giving Gardner a hearty salute for his success. He returned it as she passed. She tapped her entry on the battery door and slipped inside, locking it closed it behind her.

_______________________________________________________________________

Garrus sat in his bunk reading from a datapad, trying for the third time that day to sort through a collection of photos and articles, but when she came in he shoved the device under his pillow and stood.  He could shoot damn near anything without so much as raising his blood pressure.  But Shepard was something he never saw coming.  Standing with her in the hallway hadn’t been enough. Dinner, surrounded by people hadn’t been enough.  When she locked the door, Garrus cursed himself for not getting further in his. . .research.

“I can come back later if you’re busy.” She lifted her eyebrows, thumb hooking toward the door.

“Busy? No.” He would _not_ look at the pillow.  Instead, he watched the pleasing upturn of her lips, and the stripe of white hair falling over her eye.

“Good, because I wasn’t going to leave anyway.”

She crossed the space between them, and threw her arms around him, tucking her face between his chin and collar.  It was, he assumed, to his credit that he’d at least remembered to remove his armor. He held her close, now that this part seemed to be established, arms circling reflexively around her shoulders.  Shepard’s breath was warm against his hide, and her fingers rubbed small circles through the fabric of his tunic.  What made his heart thump, though, was the satisfied sound, deep and perfect, that she let slip out when he squeezed her briefly.

“Rough day?”

“You have no idea.” She murmured into his neck.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but all you did today was go shopping, right?” After the Illusive Man’s inquisition, she had disappeared.  So Garrus had taken the opportunity to put aside calibrations for more immediate studies.  Somehow it seemed easier without her on the Normandy, but having her back where he could see her and touch her sort of blew everything else away. He pulled back to look at her face. “You didn’t have to shoot anyone, or disarm anything, or infiltrate something?”

“No, just the shopping.” She shook her head, eyes far away for a moment.

“Uh-huh.”

She stood back a ways, and graced him with an admiring look, nodding at his clothes.  Garrus felt her distraction, though.  He saw it creeping into the creases around her eyes, and in the subtle pulse of red under her scars.

“Did you know they made some kind of memorial park for me on Elysium?” She said, voice reaching out to whatever distant point her gaze had fixed on.  They had discussed the Blitz before, but never starting with so much obvious heartache.  He always assumed that the memory was faint now, especially once-removed by death.  Clearly it wasn’t.

“I think I heard that, yeah.” He said softly.

“People get married there. Right there, where we fought for hours.”  Her voice went grey, foggy, and she teased her fingers along the stitched piping at the neck of his shirt.  “Half of us still in our pajamas.”

“Shepard.” Though his concern grew, watching how her smile faded, Shepard’s touch was too light on his plates.  His hide itched to have her press harder, or for her to let him push away whatever weighed on her.

“Have you ever been there?” She asked with the voice of a much younger woman.

Under their new circumstance, he supposed he was in a position to guide the Commander out of her melancholy.  It was a unique challenge for him, and one he distantly wished had been open to him for all the years that came before. He took her elbows and pulled her back into the circle of his arms.

“Do you want to talk about the Blitz?” Garrus held the sweeping curve at her lower back.  She was quiet, seeming to decide on a more engaging topic for them both.

“No, as a matter of fact.” She said, and met his gaze with happier amber eyes.

Shepard reached up and plucked his visor off, laying it on the console.  For a moment, he flared with annoyance, but she left no time for it.  Nails dragged from his chin to the back of his head, and Garrus leaned into her hand, visor forgotten. She explored freely beneath his fringe, scratching and swirling and teasing her fingers over areas only Garrus himself ever reached these days. This she did with her eyes open, watching his reactions. And he couldn’t help but react.  His talons traced her spine, needing to grasp and unable to. Then she ran both hands over the top of his head, trapping fringe between her fingers.

Wherever she learned it, or whatever spurred the instinct, he didn’t care.  Garrus closed his eyes, and then felt soft tugging.  The sweetness of it, simple and direct, made him groan.  But still, he worried over how much he wanted to do, or could do, in return, and made himself immobile with the fear of it. When he opened his eyes she was staring at him, gold gaze searching.

“You have an opportunity to teach me something. Tell me what you want.” The last part came so deeply, from a pitch he was only beginning to understand, that Garrus warmed under the words.

“How much time do you have?” he asked, exhaling.

“Mm. Start small. Fringe pulling?”  Her smile returned as she threaded again, tugged again.  And he squeezed her when it gave him a tingle.

“By all means. But, pull too hard, and it’s more of a threat.”

“Understood. Please don’t make me ask anything else. Just show me.” Her hands had drifted down to his chest, feeling the plates beneath his shirt. As instructed, he took her by the wrists and gave her a new direction. It helped to remember how she had scratched him, and how comfortable she had been with that request.  And it helped to hear the faintest change in her breath when her hands were cradled in his. With the thrum of blood shooting from his heart to other parts, Garrus guided her under his tunic, to his waist. She splayed her hands, palming the flat plates, overlaid like petals, and he leaned his mandible against her downturned head while she explored.  Plenty of turians had offered their observations on his slimness, and while Shepard might not have picked up on the importance of expressing it, she certainly made a show of appreciating him with her hands.

Those small hands, which he would never have guessed could be good for much, took his breath away.  They spanned and circled him, teasing beneath the plates to scratch, and then gripping with tight thumbs pressed across his middle.  He sighed into her hair, catching the scent of food and alcohol . . .and something electrical, biotic but spicy, that was more intrinsically Shepard.  In a flash, the scent had Garrus wondering how to taste her, and he swelled a little at knowing he would get the chance to find out.  Combined with the way she squeezed him, the tactile reality of the thought drew a hungry, haunting rumble from his chest.

“It occurs to me that this is all very one-sided.”  Her voice drifted through the heat in his mind.  She gave him a peculiar look.

“H-how do you mean?” His voice cracked a little as she delved lower, beneath the overlapping plates at his trousers, to touch the hidden skin beneath.

“I mean I’m the one making all the overtures here.”  Again that voice dipped heavily, and he dearly wanted to urge her fingernails deeper.  But she kept stopping to cock her head at him.  “Is there something wrong with you touching _me_?”

“I can’t just . . .do that. It’s not that simple.” Spirits, how he wished it were.  She’d never know how he tried to imagine her as a turian, and failed so miserably at comparing her to anything he could grasp.  But then the scout had been simple, the petty officer in C-Sec had been simple, the consorts had been simple.  Standing there, needing to grip the console every time her nails scraped beneath his waistband, Garrus realized that, apparently, he wasn’t interested in simple.

“Mm.” She withdrew her hands, and Garrus would have sold his rifle to get them back.  Instead, she folded her arms and tilted her head.  “Is this a hierarchy thing?”

“No. Well, maybe on some level. But, not really.” He looked down at his talons.  There, in the sharp points and the rough creases, he found only the questions he had been asking himself since the night before.  How was he ever going to make this work?  What if it didn’t?  Like so many things they embarked on together, it had been easier to expect her command.

“Okay. Let’s test your mettle. Or rather, let’s test mine.” She went to his bunk and sat down.  When she patted the blanket and grinned up at him, his heart gave a double-tap. “Give me a back-scratch.”

“You realize that I will actually end up scratching your back to ribbons.” But he was already moving to the bunk as if she had a gravitational field.  One that couldn’t be reasoned-with.

“Let me worry about that. If it’s bad, well, at least it’s where no one will see it. And if it’s good, then. . .it’s good.” Her forehead wrinkled as Garrus watched the curve of her eyebrows climb a little higher, but she was still smiling.

He came to the bunk and sat behind her as she offered her back to him.  But before he could even raise his talons, she turned and suddenly hooked a hand behind his head.  For a split second she paused, unsure, and then leaned forward, touching and holding her forehead to his. It was direct, and it shocked him so thoroughly that he didn’t even think to close his eyes.  He only stared down at the blurry line of her nose where it teased his, and the dual arc of her lowered lashes, and thought he might be dreaming. When she released him, hopeful eyes scanning for a reaction, Garrus flared his mandibles around a sigh and then shook his head.

“Part of me really wants to know where you learned that. So I can go break his legs.” He caught her hand, needing to return some portion of the way she had touched him, and surprised him.

“I’m a quick study.” She murmured, pleased with herself.

“Study? If there’s a test involved somewhere down the line I’m screwed.”

“That’s the idea.” She let the retort whip out, and Garrus noticed the way she bit her lip, a little too late. It was so Shepard.  He laughed, and she was so instantly thrilled that he bumped her forehead again. This time, though he held her there, talons resting on the column of her neck behind her hair, and let his eyes close.  It wasn’t even a question any more.  They could do anything.

“Garrus, will you please scratch my back?” She gave him her best, serious voice, and added a stroking set of fingernails to the hide below his mandible.

“Yes.”

He released her and she turned her back to him. And then, as if it were something they did together as a matter of course, she pulled her tunic up over her head. Garrus watched, dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of so much skin.  He was fascinated by how her hair fell around her back, how smooth she was, where her shoulder blades pointed and dipped (he filed these away as two of his new favorite things), and how the exquisite network of red scars traced across her like brilliant city lights seen from space. There was an extra piece of clothing, which she removed by reaching behind her and unclasping it deftly with one hand.

“Okay, ready when you are.”  She smiled at him over one shoulder, hair pulled to the side, while her arms held her tunic against her chest.

Garrus found that, talons or no, her fearlessness made him want to touch her everywhere. So, he let the pads of his fingers trail over her first, and sensed that lighter touches were as teasing, in a good and bad way, for her as they were for him when _she_ did it. So, he let a bolder touch flow from his hands, and scratched her in earnest.

Slowly, he drew a diagonal line across her back with one talon. The skin yielded, softened around the pointed tip, but did not break. He looked closer and saw that not even a red mark remained. He drew another line across, from the opposite shoulder, this time with two talons. Again her skin showed resilience he simply had not expected. The image of her thumbnail, scraping and gouging through metal, rose up as he scratched her once more.  Shepard had been right.  Her body was stronger than ever, including her skin.  When he paused for too long, she peeked at him, winking her encouragement over one peachy freckled shoulder.

With that, Garrus used both hands to scratch her back, tracing her shoulder blades and the indentation of her spine. And all the while Shepard sighed and approved with a nod or a pleased groan. There were positive sounds she made in the enjoyment of a meal or a story but, as his talons moved over her, Garrus thought this was markedly different.  And though these were surface sounds (nothing in the register of desire that he knew) he found them hitting the same nerve centers within _him_ because they sparked from his touch.  There was a definite heat in her every reaction, and his body answered without confusion. Her head lolled forward and she moaned faintly when his talons tracked the entire length of her spine.  The swelling behind his plates remembered, an instant before his mind caught up, what a couple of fingers on a spinal ridge could produce.  Shepard couldn’t see the flare of his mandibles as that memory surfaced. 

But the best part, for him, was how the curve of her waist beckoned.  It mattered so little that it wasn’t plated, or impossibly small.  Shepard had whipped her shirt off, without hesitation, and there it was.  He doubted if she knew the immediate implications of baring it for him, but he wasn’t about to protest. A waist was a treasure.  And seeing hers, lithe and scarred and twisting above her hips as she turned to look at him, made Garrus feel like the luckiest fool in the galaxy.  Unable to resist, he ran the backs of his talons across that dip on either side. She squirmed and burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, that tickles!” Shepard gasped and her body jerked under his hands.

“Is that bad?” He froze.

“Being tickled? I suppose not. Come to think of it, it’s the precursor to a lot of great stuff.”  As she looked over at him, her voice and her gold eyes went a little dark with the promise of more surprises.  “So, no, it’s not bad at all. Just don’t do it all the time, or I’ll kick you.”

“But, I like this part.” He squeezed her waist and dragged her backwards against him, knowing little else beyond how he needed far less space between them.

“Feeling more confident, I see.”

“Much more, yes.” He pressed his face against her neck and continued to stroke her waist. _Shepard_.  The _Commander_.  Shirtless and leaning against him like it was always this way.  Garrus couldn’t help the onslaught of nerves, and he blinked as if it would make this apparition disappear.  When it didn’t, his mandibles fluttered happily over the ridge of her shoulder.  She reached back with one hand, the other still clutching her tunic against her chest, and scratched his head, threading his fringe like before. He heard his own voice spill across her neck, deep and hoarse. “S- so your skin is fine. No scrapes. Well maybe a few, but they’re fading alrea-. . .Spirits, Shepard, you are good at that.”

“Five fingers beats three.” She nodded to herself.

“I’m inclined to agree.”  As the delicious, sliding pressure glided over his fringe, Garrus swore he could tell she was smiling without even looking.

Naturally, his mind traveled to other places where her five, nimble fingers would be useful. They weren’t large, but her hands had dexterity.  They were supple, and the though of her palms on him, those fingers cupping and tugging, made the blood gallop straight to his groin.  Without meaning to, his grip on her tightened, talons marking six tiny pinpricks.

“So, we’ve established that I’m not going to be shredded to pieces if you touch me.” She slipped back into her -harness?- and hooked it into place. He nodded his agreement when she looked to confirm.  Then, she pulled her tunic over her head and stuffed her arms back into it. But Garrus wasn’t ready to let go of her.  Though it relieved him a bit to have her less naked, his mind frantically pieced together what information he had read in the very likely event that he’d have to utilize it in the next few minutes.  It was frustrating.  Worst of all was how the act of touching her, listening to her, calmed his brain but also made his blood race at the same time. Thankfully, she let him trace her waist beneath the shirt while she spoke.

“What I want is simple. Don’t wait for me. I want you to feel like you can touch me whenever _you_ want.” Shepard swept her hair out from under the collar of her tunic and turned to face him on the bunk.

He considered just nodding.  But so much of what made them great together, even like this with his hands on her, was how he could drive the serious lines of her face into a far more interesting arrangement if he just pretended not to understand.

“In battle?” He offered.

“Within reason.”

“At debriefings?”

“Be serious.” Her hand went to her forehead, attempting to hide how she wanted to laugh.

“I am serious.”  Garrus looked down at the hem of her tunic where it covered his wrist.  And he delighted all over again that this was happening at all, even if it made him crazy with doubts about himself.  “No, you’re right. During battle would be wrong. But, you have to admit, debriefings are so boring.”

She smacked his shoulder, mouth scrunching, and pulled his hands from beneath her shirt.  Yes, he had taken it too far, but it had served to show her what she was up against when it came to defense mechanisms.  If anyone was up for that challenge, though, it was Shepard.  She stood up, ready to show him.

“Vakarian. Can I trust you to go ahead treat me like a woman?” Her hair hung low, swinging beside her face as she planted her hands on her hips. 

“That’s going to be tough.” He made it sound like a chore, sighing.

Garrus watched her fingers dig into her hips.  There was reading to be done about human hips, and everything else, but at some point he would have to look up from his calculations and deal with what really stood in his way.  He just couldn’t see what she wanted in him.  As they stared at one another, Shepard reached into his silence, pushing aside his bullshit, and put her faith in him.

“You have it in you.”

“Knowing you . . .it won’t take much to bring it out.” He gave a brief shake of his fringe.  At that, she smiled.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at the floor between his feet.  The floor was infinitely easier than the gleam in a pair of warm, amber eyes. “Look, Shepard, I get it. You’re not just my Commander, you’re something more now. You want to change our whole dynamic, but how far does that go?” That he wanted to see where it went made no difference to the rigid part of his mind that always refused him a moment’s happiness.  That part still felt like it needed to be her call, all the time.  “What you’re offering here is complicated.  For me.”

She didn’t growl with exasperation.  She didn’t prod him with humor, or order him to get over it.  Shepard stepped between his knees, forcing him to sit up and look at her. Then she took his face in her hands.

“Give it a shot?”

Her eyes challenged him, ignited his spirit of collaboration, and the warm hands over his scars reassured him that every step he took she would be taking alongside him. When she smiled above him, Garrus believed her.  He nodded, letting his forehead rest against her belly, and he felt her hands stroke the top of his head, his fringe, and the sensitive area underneath. She wanted him. For any man, or turian, in his right mind that alone should have been enough.

So, he let himself imagine the partner _he_ wanted to be for her, for himself, and tested how that might go.

Garrus cupped the backs of Shepard’s legs, sliding his palms upward from her calves to her thighs. She swayed. When he reached the pert swell of her bottom he filled his hands with her and kneaded. A little too hard, maybe, but she wasn’t complaining. He looked up, past her chest, into the curtain of rose-gold hair. There, her eyes were shadowed. But he heard the now-familiar intake of breath, and he swallowed at the point where it came out again in a throaty whimper.

“Put your arms around me.” He nearly choked at the sound of his voice commanding her. But, she braced her arms around his shoulders, and he lifted her onto his lap.

One day he would settle into the idea that the captain of the Normandy wanted his talons on her. That she was more than happy to sit in his lap and have him fondle her. In some future scenario he might find it perfectly normal. But for the moment his brain thrilled, both in warning and in pride, when she moved on him, and mumbled in her low tone.  The very weight of her locking into the perfect place, knees over his hips with the clasp of talons still curled under her thighs, made his head swim with blatant urgency.  Closeness consumed them. It was the effect of prolonged loneliness, and Garrus felt hers as keenly as his own. 

Shepard showed it in the drag of her chest over hard plates, her quick breath, and the fingernails digging into his neck.  He responded as thoughtfully as he could, not completely sure of everything she needed, and only able to meet the push of her body with the resistance of his.  Where small memories awakened in his muscles, they mingled with the new knowledge he’d gleaned, and Garrus smoothed a path from her lap to just beneath the curved flesh above her ribs.  She pressed her lips to his brow, nuzzling, and teased below his fringe.

Research had to be good for something, he reasoned, and watched his thumbs sweep in a slow arc over the tips of her breasts. They yielded, changed almost imperceptibly under her shirt, and Shepard let him consider little more as she arched into his palm.

“Garrus.”  That voice in his head, his name skirting a husky whisper, made his thumbs stroke again.  Encouraged, she seated herself impossibly closer, and his talons raked up under her tunic, drawing over the flesh of her back to clutch her tighter. Shepard crowded his mind; the way she held a gun, the brightness of her blood, the sound she made when she wanted to laugh but didn’t.  He might have been mumbling her name, or it might simply have been a groan aimed at the tempting pronouncement of her collarbone beside his nose.  There were hips under his palms, soft and wide, and Garrus couldn’t remember how they got there. . .only that they rolled harder when he gripped.  Her hands mapped his face, touching his scars, before she ducked down to lean her forehead on his.  And all the while, she never stopped moving.  When he felt her fingers lifting his shirt, they were suddenly also under his fringe. Even if he wanted to, Garrus doubted he could move fast enough.  Pressure swirled low behind his shifting plates with every broken whimper in her throat. It was heady. Pictures on a datapad didn’t prepare him for the way the quiet of the main battery suddenly broke apart with panting, and the soft scrubbing of fabric where his Commander rose and fell so sweetly.

But they were moving too fast for any of it to come out right.

The one thing she had asked for, his direction and his voice, was in danger of being drowned by the swiftness that overtook them.  Maybe they knew enough to make a go – their bodies certainly seemed to think so – but Garrus couldn’t convince his brain that this was how it should be.  Here in the battery there was nothing approaching romance, and a withering amount of pressure that he was certain would cause their first time to be, in addition to awkward, extraordinarily short. He closed his eyes, biting back a rueful laugh.

Collectors, Reapers, or Cerberus could kick down the door tomorrow, and maybe Shepard would be disappointed if they stopped now, but he wanted this to be something they both deserved. It needed to be something good. . .and he wasn’t good enough yet.

Garrus stilled his hands, cupping her shoulder blades again under her shirt. And it felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he held her firmly until she stopped the maddening quirk of her hips against his.  With all motion ceased, he blinked up at her and then dropped his forehead to her chest, an unsteady breath hissing from between his teeth.  He mumbled into her shirt. “Slower, Shepard.  We have to. . .go a little slower.”

“Yeah, I suppose we do.”  Her hands held the back of his head.  Behind the rapid thumping that met his forehead, he felt her pull a shaky breath of her own.  When his talons came down, smoothing her tunic, Shepard’s voice dipped low. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I’m not.”  When he looked up, she was smiling at him.  He was so warm everywhere, from the generous heat spiraling in his groin to his arms where they rested around her waist.  He hadn’t noticed just _how_ warm they both were until they stopped, and the hair at her temples caught his eye.  It was darker, damp, and her skin was so pink.  That was good, as far as he knew.  Yes, it had been a very long time for him, but blue or pink, a flush was something Garrus could understand.  Knowing he’d had a part in making her feel that way caused a deeply satisfying surge where he most needed things to settle down.

“That went pretty well, I’d say.”  She scooted back a little, but made no move to get off his lap. “Do you need me to. . .should I get up?”

“No.  This is good.”  He patted her hips, mandibles flaring with brief joy, and Garrus wished she had some equal part he could read.  Shepard’s hands at the front of his chest were good enough, though, as was the bright, earnest gaze she offered.

“You surprise me.”  Her fingers traced small circles. “Feel free to surprise me more often.”

“Yeah?”  He dragged the sharp point of his thumb along her jaw and she tilted her head, giving him access and making his heart race. Reminding himself that he needn’t ask to do these things, he leaned forward and let his tongue follow, gliding along her jaw to the strange, soft lobe of her ear. She shivered and her head gave an involuntary twitch. So, that tickled, too? Good. He did it again and she wriggled, laughing.  But the way her bottom squirmed distracted him.

“Be still.”

“But.” She huffed.

“Hey, you asked for it.” They had accomplished more than he dreamed possible, actually, but Garrus still felt compelled to test.  It felt like calibrating each other, in a way.

She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, and if he hadn’t known her for so long he would have thought she was pouting. They stared at one other. Then, she swept her hair aside for him and waited, gold eyes calm and inviting. But instead of teasing her further he threaded his talons at the back of her neck and pulled her forehead against his. After a moment, Shepard hugged herself closer to him and spoke into the tiny bud of his ear.

“Well done, soldier. But, we should probably call it a night.”  There was a small press of lips behind his jaw after she spoke.

“I vote no.” He countered, deciding that slow didn’t have to mean they were finished learning.

“You want to take a guess at where we have to go tomorrow?” She pushed herself up, scooting back toward his knees with a sigh.

“Again. NO.”  Garrus cocked his head at her, marveling at how unfazed she was.  “I really like the sound of that. ‘No.’ Ask me something else.”

“We’re going back to Illium.” This was directed down at her lap, where she turned his talons over in her hand.

Garrus sighed and looked down as well, mandibles grinding with sudden jealousy. In another time, watching Shepard and Liara kiss had been a distinctly pleasurable sight. It was strange to remember that he used to feel that way and yet boil with anger over the thought now. There had been no reason to seethe at Liara when he had seen her just a few weeks ago. Nothing had happened between he and Shepard. But, he recalled perfectly how their kiss affected him. How he couldn’t wait to get out of that office and yet didn’t want to leave them alone. It startled him to think he had harbored these thoughts for Shepard well before he became fully aware of them. This part would be messy.  He felt for Liara, if only because her closest friends had almost entirely neglected to think of her as they followed their small measure of happiness.  The image of Liara and the drell through his scope materialized, and his heart thumped to remember what she’d given up to get Shepard back.

Having come this far in the pursuit of something he felt was, well amazing, Garrus knew he would fight tooth and claw to keep it. And that part would be ugly.

“Hey, look at me.”  Shepard hooked a finger under his chin.  “I’m _all_ here, with you. But she deserves an explanation.”

“What’s the plan?” He nodded, meeting her worried eyes.

“You don’t have to come with me. The potential for awkwardness definitely goes up if you come along. But, feel free. I think she just wants to meet to talk about the Shadow Broker.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, waiting.  It was so indirect.  Giving him an option while making it seem pointless wasn’t her style.  The way she made it sound so simple, so route, made Garrus momentarily indignant. 

“You aren’t going without me.” The snap of jealousy, the thought of being left behind, gave his words more petulance than he’d hoped for.  Unable to stop them, his talons tightened over her hands.

“Oh, that’s nice. It warms my heart to see so much trust.”  Ice crept into her voice, and the wire-thin scars seethed with renewed light.  She all but jumped to get off his lap, annoyed, straightening her tunic and crossing her arms.

“I don’t trust _her_. Not where you are concerned.” Garrus could feel the heat rising in his throat, pushing his voice louder and darker as he leaned forward.

“This is Liara we’re talking about.” The Commander widened her stance.

“Look, all I know is that if it were me. . .” He came off his bunk, arms flung wide as if to encompass the entirety of Liara’s ordeal.  “I wouldn’t plot, and kill, and risk my life to bring you back from the dead, only to step aside and let someone else take my place.”

There was a clearer way to say it, surely.  His breath was harsh in his chest, and his thighs were still warm from her weight, and the threat of Liara felt real.  They were climbing something steep, and he didn’t want to fall behind.  When Shepard only stared at him, gold eyes saddened but unwavering, he scrubbed a palm over his face and straightened up. 

“Let me come, please.”  Because he felt like a partner, where once he might have been an anchor, the words themselves managed not to sound as pathetic as Garrus feared.

“Okay.” She said, nodding as her eyes gained some softness.

“Thank you.”

They drifted together, one shuffling footstep at a time. Her hands found his waist. Garrus pushed his talons through her hair, possessive, scratching her scalp a little until she closed her eyes. The small, heated sounds filled the back of her throat again as he rubbed. Then, because she expressed an interested in being surprised, he pressed his mouth to hers in his approximation of a kiss. He flexed his upper lip, nibbling the plush pucker of her lower lip, and darted the tip of his tongue out for a quick tease.  Her eyelids fluttered open.

Shepard stared at him, stunned, and his mandibles fluttered in a laugh.  She was still a little stiff with shock when he moved his forehead over hers.  It felt like a victory, and he rumbled into her ear. “I _can_ study. Just because I hated school doesn’t mean that I wasn’t any good at it.”


	10. Chapter 10

In lieu of leaving individual responses to the many wonderful people who have commented on this fic over the years, I've elected to put this at what is effectively the end of the story itself.    
  
 **Thank you so much for all your kind words.  I've read every syllable with absolute joy.**    
  
Every time I get another comment or a batch of kudos on this, possibly my oldest story, I'm reminded why, despite its many flaws and its abandoned state, I haven't taken it down.  It was among the first real works of fanfiction that I wrote.  I threw myself into it without much skill, knowledge, or research. . .and without a moment's hesitation.  The writing is dense, thick with undefined concepts and too many metaphors. It's profoundly bad with regards to the dizzying shift in POV from Shepard to Garrus within single scenes, and my amateur writer's poor understanding of dialogue grammar. (And, grammar in general. This is an ongoing problem for all writers, I'm assured.)  
  
The fact that I've grown substantially enough to identify where I went wrong in no way diminishes how I feel about this story.  I will never complete it, and I will never rewrite it, but I will always _love_ it, as I love each and every person who's ever read it and gotten a thrill out of it.  
  
 _Mass Effect: Andromeda_ is on the horizon.  I anticipate writing plenty of one-shots and possibly long fics for that game, though I've lost the initial fearlessness around writing that I had when I was first inspired by _Mass Effect 2_.  These days I'm far more careful with everything: structure, dialogue, plot, etc. My writing is more reserved, thoughtful, less sprawling.  Keeping _Neither Parted_ on the books helps remind me why I still write, and what I can learn from my past-self about writing with unsuppressed passion.    
  
Again, I'm so grateful to anyone who looked past this story's unfinished status and took the time to read and comment.  
  



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